


In Honour of the Lambs Led Astray

by jellydonut16



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Escorts, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Double-cross, Dubious Morality, Hitman!Yuuri, Honeypot!Yuuri, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mafia AU, Mafia Victor Nikiforov, Manipulation, Mention of attempted suicide, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pakhan!Viktor, Rival Mafia feuds, Russian Mafia, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, YOI Shit Bang 2017, YOIShitBang2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2018-12-22 00:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11956371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellydonut16/pseuds/jellydonut16
Summary: Living in a world run by money and deceit, Katsuki Yuuri is a honeypot who works under the guise of a high-class escort. For a hefty sum, he can turn an extraction of information into an assassination. Jaded to the existence of soulmates, he throws himself into his work and lets it consume him.He may have just found his biggest job yet, with more zeroes than he knows what to do with and promise of a blank slate to start all over again. His target for assassination is none other than the newly appointed Pakhan of the Feltsman Bratva, Viktor Nikiforov. The stakes are high but the rewards are higher, treading along the fine line between a painful death and a life in the lap of luxury. But nothing is ever as it seems.Art by Oxytrezarthere!





	1. prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep work skin on. Thank you!

Katsuki Yuuri died in 2011.

Legally, of course. His death certificate was made official by a coroner and his remains were kept in the Katsuki family’s shrine. He passed under tragic circumstances, which made rounds in the small town of Hasetsu, and his cause of death was officially listed as death by drowning.

He had gone on a trip to Cancún with some friends while he was studying in America over spring break. They had gotten more than a little tipsy, a little drunk; at least, according to the alibis of his friends, and due to a bout of inebriated recklessness, Katsuki Yuuri made his way to the dark waters of the beach, and eventually he was lost to the waves, carried away from the shore by the strong undertow.

Search and rescue parties were deployed to find him— or at the very least, his body. After the standard 48 hours, the search was called off and indefinitely suspended. Wayne State University held a vigil in his honour.

It wasn’t until late-2012 when a deteriorated corpse washed up on shore, showing late stages of decay and barely recognisable. The body itself had the traits of a male, five-foot-six, obviously of Asian descent.

Katsuki Yuuri’s case, after reaching a dead end so many months ago, was opened again. The corpse was sent to the nearest coroner’s for DNA testing in corroboration with Katsuki’s medical documents from his university in Detroit. The evidence tested positive, and having found Katsuki’s body, the case was closed.

His body was shipped to Japan for cremation, where his family could finally find closure, even in death.

The whole town of Hasetsu was in mourning for the young bright thing who had so much to live for.

But there was just one thing they had completely missed.

It was the fact that Katsuki Yuuri was still very much alive.


	2. and the snakes start to sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A faith is a necessity to a man.  
> Woe to him who believes in nothing.”  
> — Victor Hugo

Perhaps in another life, things could have turned out differently. If only he had played his cards right from earlier on, maybe, perhaps, he wouldn’t have found himself a victim to circumstance; a slave to the twists of fate, intangible, yet inescapable.

And yet here he is.

He’s made his bed. He’s dug his grave. There was no escaping the atrocities he’s committed; the unmentionable things he’s done. No matter how hard he scrubs his hands under running tap water ice cold, numbing his skin, bloodstains still creep into the edges of his vision, skin rubbed raw from exertion.

He wasn’t always like this.

He wasn’t always this terrible, _tainted_ excuse of a human being, who didn’t hesitate in being the downfall of others if it meant he’d have another step to climb. In fact, he used to be a nice kid, a _good_ kid, albeit a little quiet and a little shy. When he was younger, he used to love ice-skating and ballet. Perhaps in another life, he could have done something with that. Hell, maybe he could’ve even been a professional ice skater or a danseur— however unlikely that was.

It keeps him up at night, really. Sometimes.

All those little would’ve beens, could’ve beens, should’ve beens.

It’s a vacuous black hole with its giant gaping _maw_ , devouring him whole. It’s a persistent niggle in the back of his head he can’t ever get rid of, and part of him fears that he never will. It consumes him, and when he tosses and turns in his sleep at night— cold sweat; rumpled sheets— thoughts of what could have been and what is _now_ hang heavy like a noose around his neck.

He used to have so much promise.

Such a bright smile.

Such a nice smile.

 

(Not anymore.)

* * *

**Hasetsu, Saga Prefecture  
** **1998**

It’s a cool summer night, long after dinner had ended and fast approaching his bedtime. He and his mother are sitting on the wooden patio outside of Yu-Topia, legs swinging back and forth as they stare up at the sky, stars the clearest and the brightest they’ve ever been in a small, sleepy town like Hasetsu. Moonshine falls over them like liquid silk, and when he looks at his mother, beams of light kiss the crown of her hair like a halo. She is beautiful and he is _elated_ at the prospect of staying up past his bedtime. It makes him feel mature; grown-up.

When Katsuki Yuuri first learns of soulmates, he is six years old.

He had always been acutely aware of the existence of soulmates. It had always been there, something universally accepted and in itself, was a constant rarely ever questioned. It has always been like this. He knows that there are soulmates. He just doesn’t know what they _are_.

So Hiroko asks him this: “Do you know what soulmates are, Yuuri?”

Yuuri quickly shakes his head. He had heard bits and pieces about it in the form of scattered conversations throughout school, from upperclassmen congregating in courtyards, to Mari talking to her friends after class. During the evenings when the TV was free, his mother would watch soap operas that had people travelling to lands foreign, hundreds of miles away, all in the pursuit of finding their soulmate. Soulmates seemed really important for some reason. He didn’t get the fuss people made out of it sometimes.

“A soulmate is someone who will love you and care for you no matter what. Someone who will know you best,” she says, smiling at him. “One day, you’ll find someone with a soulmark just like yours—”

Yuuri’s gaze suddenly drops down to where his soulmark is, hidden by his clothes. He had been born with it, meaning his soulmate was already somewhere, waiting for _him_. He feels a flutter of excitement in his chest, beaming up at his mother.

“—that’s how you’ll know they’re the one.”

‘Someone who would love him and care for him no matter what.’ That sounded nice. He’d like to have a soulmate. Belatedly, he realises, he already has one. His curiosity piqued, he couldn’t help but wonder when he would meet his soulmate. Already, he could feel the rush of emotion welling in his heart for someone he had yet to meet— or, perhaps, he already has?

He thinks of Yuuko-chan, a cute upperclassman from his school, for a moment, and ducks his head down to hide the impending flush of red from flooding his cheeks. If they’ll love him and care for him, then Yuuri will as well! He’d make sure to love them just as much, if not more!

One day… Oneday, he’ll meet his soulmate, and he’ll love them with all his heart.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri was naïve once.

 

* * *

 

 **Beijing  
** **Present day**

It’s three AM and Yuuri is still awake. He’s tired, but not in the sense where it could easily be remedied with ample rest or sleep. It’s a tiredness that is deeply-rooted, something that wears him down to the marrow of his bones, and one that no amount of sleeping pills or medication could ever hope to cure. It crawls down his chest through the passage of his throat, growing its spindly roots around his ribcage, _suffocating_ — it bears with it a heaviness he can’t shake off, always lingering, and it makes his body its second home.

He leans against the bathtub, water now lukewarm sloshing about, and he closes his eyes. For a moment, he thinks he might be going insane. He doesn’t feel like himself— not anymore. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t feel like a person at all.

Perhaps he isn’t. Perhaps somewhere along the line, through it all, he had lost something essential to his humanity. But if it were, indeed, something innate; something born in all humans, then what did that make him?

It makes sense, he thinks. It had been years since he had seen himself as an individual, as _Yuuri_ , instead of a pair of hands that knew how to work a gun and pull a trigger. He had lost himself in all the different aliases and identities he had taken over the years; he was nothing but clay, moulded to fit whatever had been expected of him. A vacuous entity that had a way with words, sweet and saccharine, coy smiles guaranteed to coax whatever he needed out of whoever he needed to coax it out of.

With the things he’s done— the things he had to do in order to get where he is now— the realisation of such wouldn’t surprise him.

But was it all worth it, in the end?

 

 

A pause.

 

 

(For a moment, the thought is enough to make him stop breathing.)

 

 

It— It’s _worth_ it.

Everything he’s done is _worth it_.

It has to be.

The price he paid was too great— not just at the expense of himself, but also at the cost of the lives of others.

It was a sacrifice he _had_ to make—

 

He opens his eyes, bleary and red, and stares down at his hands. His fingertips are wrinkled from being submerged in the water for too long. There are lingering traces of blood deep in the crevices of his fingernails, and no matter how thoroughly he tries to clean them, they never are. They never will be.

 

(Under the water, his eyes drift over to the soulmark on his hip. He brushes his thumb against it, feels the hard jut of his hipbone over paper-thin skin.)

(Would’ve been, could’ve been, should’ve been.)

 

(And for just a frightening second, the constant guilt turns into regret.)

 

* * *

 

He shouldn’t dwell on these things.

He can’t. He simply can’t.

The stakes are just so much higher when emotions come into the equation. It’s an irony in itself since Yuuri had always been an introspective, emotional person. When he feels, he feels deeply. It is a part of him; something he cannot simply erase or bury in the recesses of his psyche, nor with the many façades he wears like a mask.

Perhaps what hurts the most is the fact that he _knows_ he can’t go on like this any longer.

But what else is there for him to do? Where else does he have to turn to? He’s lost everything.

What he has destroyed cannot be rebuilt.

He will never be whole again.

 

* * *

 

There was a time when Yuuri once believed in love. He believed it to be true, to be something absolute; and if one cared enough to look, they could find traces of all sorts of love around them. It was a driving force in the lives of others— something from which they could find their strength.

But what Yuuri once thought to be the best of intentions for his family and for himself, had turned out to be his biggest downfall.

Now the reality he lived in operated under very different circumstances, revolving around sex, money and power. They all tied in together intrinsically; something he himself, when he had first started out, could barely fathom.

Money is the godhead of all three, and when you have money, everything else follows.

 

* * *

 **Detroit  
** **2010**

Yuuri is eighteen when he finds himself between a rock and a hard place. He knows things back at home aren’t going so well lately. Business is slow— slower than usual, that is. And a big part of him refused to ask for financial help from his family, especially when expenses on their end were already strained.

So here he is, a full-time college student working two part-time jobs around the clock. He feels like he’s spread himself too thin, but with the present circumstances, he doesn’t really have any other choice. His scholarships don’t cover everything, and there are urgent payments he needs money for. Money he currently doesn’t _have_ , so he’s taken up doing part-time jobs to help make up the difference.

It may have been a thing of pride, but he doesn’t _want_ to rely on his family. He doesn’t want to be a burden to them, especially when they’ve already sacrificed so much just to send him to study here. He can do it on his own; he _knows_ he can. It may be a little rough, but he’ll just have to hold on and see it through the best he can.

He just finished a shift at work after a whole day of classes and he’s _exhausted_. Yuuri wants nothing more than to head back to his dorm and sleep while he can, but Phichit is insistent on taking Yuuri out for drinks, just to loosen him up and get him to _relax_. They aren’t even of legal age, which Yuuri actually brings up, but Phichit had nothing to say on the matter other than the fact that he’s ‘got it covered’, punctuated with a mischievous wink.

Yuuri highly doubts that, but sure. He’ll go along, if just for tonight.

Instead of a nearby bar, Phichit and Yuuri head over to a nightclub downtown. Even from outside the red brick building, he can hear the thumping bass of the music practically shaking its foundations. He can also feel an impending headache coming on just thinking about being surrounded by all these people.

Instead of falling in line by the long row of people along the velvet ropes, Phichit strides up to a guy talking loudly into his Bluetooth earpiece, chatting him up with practised acquaintance. When the guy turns around, it turns out that Yuuri _does_ recognise him. It’s Chase Bentley from Phichit’s Anthropology class.

Chase grins at him, waves, and Yuuri waves back. He ushers the both of them into the club, past the two bouncers who are in front of the doors leading into the building. They don’t even bat an eyelash at them, and Phichit’s already walking ahead with Chase up front, the three of them winding their way through the throng of people gyrating to the pulsating music.

Turns out Chase is an event organiser in his downtime. He’s the guy who brings in influencers and minor celebrities into the clubs that hire him, VIP all-access stuff. He’s always been amiable and sociable, so Yuuri supposes it’s no surprise why Chase is good at what he does.

Chase leads them up to the VIP lounge on the second floor, giving them a perfect view of the dancefloor that took up the entire ground floor. Strobe lights dart over the crowd, almost serpentine in nature. The VIP area itself is enveloped in a haze of smoke, probably coming from the hookahs they set out on every table, low and surrounded by cushions and bean bags. Each seating area is separated by thin muslin cloth, offering a bit of privacy.

They take their seats in the corner of the room, their little nook a bit more secluded than the others, and Phichit leaves Yuuri there so he and Chase can go get their drinks. Yuuri lets out a tired sigh, ensconcing himself further into the soft seating.

Not even two minutes in, a man sidles up next to him, wordless. Yuuri hesitantly casts a glance at him, and through the dim blue lights, he can see the man is dressed in a clean-cut white dress shirt, khaki chinos. He has a sharp jawline, dark eyes, Mediterranean facial features accentuated by his five o’clock shadow. He’s… rather handsome, Yuuri thinks, and it makes him nervous.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” the man says, voice husky. “You go here often?”

“Not at all, no.” Yuuri says, tone curt; wary.

The man eyes him up and down, and shivers run down Yuuri’s spine. “Yeah,” he drawls, running a hand through his short dark hair. “You don’t seem like the type.”

Yuuri says nothing in response, only giving the man a smile that’s strained at the edges. The guy hasn’t left yet, and Yuuri feels _so uncomfortable_.

A woman saunters over to their table, and just when Yuuri thinks there’ll be another uninvited plus one, she drapes her nicely manicured hands over the other guy’s shoulders, voice low; sultry. Even though he can’t exactly _hear_ what she’s whispering in the guy’s ear, he’s pretty sure it’s a proposition of some kind.

Yeah, Yuuri would give anything to not be here right now. He sits stiffly; everything about him is on edge.

He’s waiting— _anticipating_ that the guy will leave him to go with her, but to his utmost shock, he plainly dismisses her. The woman frowns at him before studying Yuuri carefully. After a moment, she turns around and walks away. Shit. _Shit_. _He’s still here_.

“Now where were we?” The man says, procuring a glass bottle full of gin and two glasses filled half-way with cubes of ice. “You seem… sober.”

“I am,” Yuuri says awkwardly.

The man either ignores or doesn’t pick up on Yuuri’s blatant discomfort, filling each of the glasses with a few inches of liquor. He hands one over to Yuuri, who takes it, and they clink their glasses together before taking a sip. The liquid burns a trail down his throat, all the way to his stomach.

“It’s nice to loosen up, no?” The man asks him, something heated in his gaze. Yuuri can’t bear to look him straight in the eye. He drapes an arm around Yuuri, and he can feel the man’s muscled chest pressing up against his back. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

Yuuri shrugs his shoulders, taking another sip before he responds. “Yuuri.”

The man leans in closer, and Yuuri can feel him breathing down on his neck. “That’s a nice name. You aren’t from here, are you, Yuuri?”

Again, a terse shake of the head. “I’m not.”

“I can show you the sights if you’d like,” the man says, and Yuuri’s breath hitches when the man runs his fingers down along Yuuri’s spine through the fabric of his shirt.

“I don’t even know your name,” Yuuri says, and he’s sure his hands are shaking. What’s taking Phichit so long? Are there that many people at the bar? He takes another swig of his drink until the glass is completely empty. He sets it down, and the man makes a move to pour more liquor into his cup.

Yuuri stands up suddenly, catching the other man by surprise. “Sorry, I need to go to the comfort room. I’ll come back.” 

The man only smirks at him, convinced he’s got Yuuri wrapped around his pinky finger. “I’ll be here, taking care of your seat for you.” 

Yuuri nods, and he’s stumbling down the dark corridor, trying to find the nearest restroom. He finds the men’s restroom tucked into one corner and he hurriedly ducks inside, gasping for breath. He ambles over to the sink, running his hands under the icy cold water before rinsing his face, pressing the pads of his fingers into the lids of his eyes. When he glances up at his reflection, there are another pair of eyes staring at him. He jolts back, a yell escaping his throat as he turns to face the woman from earlier— _how long had she been there? Why didn’t he hear her come in?_  

“Fuck,” Yuuri chokes out, heart thumping against his chest, “this is the _men’s room_ —”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence when she roughly shoves him into one of the bathroom cubicles, pressing him up against the wall. “This is your fault!” She exclaims, shoving his chest again for good measure. She’s as tall as him on her heels, and Yuuri can see anger in her green eyes. It’s almost feral; something _deadly_. “I could have had him, but then _you_ came in—”

Yuuri blinks, taken aback. “Is this about that _guy_?”

“If you’re talking about the asshole that ruined my life, then _yes_ , it _is_ about that guy!”

“Fuck, he approached me first! I’m sorry, okay? I literally want _no_ part of this, so if you can just let me go—” 

She digs her elbow into his chest and Yuuri winces. “He’s already got his sights set on you, and once that happens, he won’t let you go until he gets what he wants. So no, I am _not_ letting you get away from me that easily.”

“What do you want from me?” 

“I have a proposition,” the woman says, and before Yuuri can turn her down, she narrows her eyes at him. “Not _that_ kind. You’re not my type. Now you’re going to _listen_ to me, and you’re going to do everything I say, as I say it. Understood?”

Yuuri gulps, unable to say a word. 

“I’ll pay you a hundred grand if you do this for me,” she says, pulling away momentarily to dig through her clutch. She pulls a brown envelope out, and she pulls a thick wad of bills out. Yuuri’s eyes grow wide at the amount of money in her hands. “Fifty K up front. You’ll get the other half after you’re done. You take the money and you leave. You do not say a word of this to anyone. _No one_. If you do, I’ll find out anyway, and I’ll come back for you. Got it?”

“What’re you going to make me do?” Yuuri asks, voice oddly high-pitched. She isn’t pinning him to the wall anymore, and yet he’s still pressing himself up against it, trying to put as much space in between them as possible.

She procures a small dark blue pill from her clutch and places it in Yuuri’s sweaty hand, trying to close his fingers around it. “Give him this when he isn’t looking.”

Yuuri fervently shakes his head, trying to give her back the pill. “No, I am _not_ helping you kill someone!”

She looks at him for a moment, disbelief etched into her features, and she bursts out laughing. There’s not a trace of humour in it, and instead something about it seems bitter, laced with acrimony. She leans against him, her chest pressed up against his. “I’m not going to kill him. This is just a little something to get him to loosen up. He took something of mine, and I only want it back.”

“So I’m going to roofie him,” Yuuri says, closing his eyes. He feels like he’s going to be sick, yet nothing rises to his throat.

“More or less.”

Yuuri stays still for a moment, trying to reign in his breathing. Holy shit. A hundred grand. One hundred thousand dollars if he does this. He should say no, of course he should, but—

What’s the worst that could happen? Right? And he _needs_ the money.

What’re the chances Yuuri will ever see this guy again?

Fuck, _no_ , what the hell, this is _wrong_. This is so wrong!! He can’t do this! He can’t! He doesn’t even _know_ the guy!

The woman sees his hesitation and pushes five wads of cash into his hands, ten grand each. They’re all crisp; clean. Fresh from the bank. “If you knew what he did to me, then you wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Yuuri looks into her eyes, and for a moment there’s something raw, something honest in her gaze. He lets out a deep exhale, sliding the pill into his front pocket before taking the cash from her hands, trying to stuff it into his back pockets the best he could.

“You’ll get the rest of the envelope at the end of the night,” she says, opening the stall and letting him out. “For now, you’ll need to act _smooth_. Don’t you _dare_ give anything away, or I will _hunt you down_.”

He nods stiffly, and she runs her hands under the water before raising them up to smooth his hair back, brushing his fringe away from his face. “You’ll look better like this. More mature.”

“All I have to do is slip this into his drink?”

“And let it dissolve,” she concurs. “It might take a minute, so I’ll leave it up to you to distract him.” 

“And if I do this right, I won’t get in trouble?”

She smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “If you do this right, it’ll be like none of this even happened. You’ll just be a hundred grand richer.”

Yuuri leans against the counter, trying to steady his heartbeat. A hundred grand at the end of the night just to slip a pill into the guy’s drink. Easy money, right?

He nods, and each step feels like there’s a leaden weight attached to it as he makes his way to the restroom door, only to find out it’d been locked. He hastily undoes the lock, hands shaking, and he makes his way back to the table. His heartbeat stutters when he sees the man talking to Phichit and Chase, unsuspecting of anything.

Phichit spots him and waves Yuuri over, a smile on his face. Yuuri smiles back, or at least, he _thinks_ he smiles back. He can’t feel it. Yet at the same time, it’s like he’s become hyperaware of everything.

“Phichit, you’re back!” Yuuri says, feigning excitement in his voice. His roommate sends him a suggestive look, dark eyes flittering over to the unnamed man still sitting in his spot.

“I see you’ve made a friend,” Phichit says, a teasing lilt to his tone.

Yuuri laughs, but it feels hollow. He takes his seat down beside the man and he’s aware of the stacks of cash digging into his skin through the fabric of his jeans. He reaches for his cup, which had been refilled in his absence, and takes a long swig from it.

When he sets the glass back down, he notices the man had been looking at him the entire time, lust evident in the way he’d try and pin Yuuri down with his gaze. Yuuri feels a twist of guilt in his gut, but doesn’t pull away when the man drapes his arm around his shoulders again.

After a few rounds of drinking, Phichit and Chase are eager to go dancing. They urge Yuuri to join in too, but even through his inebriation, Yuuri still remembers what he’s supposed to do. He’s sweating. His palms are sweating. He can feel it. And he’s paranoid thinking the man sitting beside him will pick up on it too, will figure out what Yuuri plans to do.

Ultimately, he opts to stay with the stranger sitting beside him instead of dancing with his friends. Phichit sends him a knowing look, offhandedly mentioning he’ll crash at Chase’s for the night so as not to _disturb_ anything. 

The moment they’re out of sight, heading to the dancefloor, Yuuri shoves all of his doubts to the back of his mind and turns to face the man beside him, still nameless even hours late into the night. Perhaps it’s better this way. If Yuuri doesn’t know him.

He does the honour of pouring their shots this time, and they both toss the liquor back in one go, slamming the shot glasses down on the table.

“You’re very attractive,” the man says and Yuuri flushes— or perhaps it’s because of the alcohol running though his veins. He moves closer and Yuuri does too, and now their legs are pressed up together. “Very, very attractive.”

As the man leans in, his face nearing Yuuri’s, Yuuri takes it as the perfect opportunity to slide the pill out of his pocket, holding it ready in his palm. He wraps an arm around the man’s neck, turning him away from the table and closer to him, and from the corner of his eye, he barely manages to get it into the man’s glass. Once it hits the amber liquid, it starts to fizzle, and Yuuri definitely knows now he has to distract him. 

So he pulls the man in for a kiss, open-mouthed, deep. He tastes the alcohol on his tongue and the man grips his chin to keep Yuuri’s mouth open, their tongues tangling. After a few minutes of making out, the man pulls away, smirking at him.

Yuuri feels his heart skip a beat, and he leans forward to reach for his shot glass, raising it up. The man does the same, and they both drink it all down in one sitting. Immediately after, guilt consumes him when he realises the man drank the pill down without even realising it.

He never thought it would work. He’s waiting for the man to realise any moment, and he’s on the edge of his seat, waiting with bated breath. The man shows no awareness of the sort, pouring them another round of shots.

The alcohol isn’t helping, but Yuuri takes it anyway, so as not to raise any suspicion. They continue kissing for a while, but the man’s kisses start to grow languid; faint.  


“Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, heart rapidly beating against his chest. He cups the man’s cheek, and beneath the stubble, his skin feels cool to the touch. Fuck. _Fuck_. “Do you want me to get you some water?”

The man squints at him suspiciously. “What did you do to me..?”

When he passes out on the couch not even a second later, Yuuri rushes downstairs, hoping no one had noticed. On his way down, someone grabs him by the elbow. It’s the woman, and she’s shoving a brown envelope in his hand before she’s making her way upstairs without another word. He can feel himself on the edge of hyperventilation, and he feels like he can’t _breathe_ , like the room is closing in on him.

He hurriedly shoves the envelope where it still fits in one of his back pockets and he makes his way down the rest of the stairs, where everything is still lively, completely oblivious to what Yuuri had just done. He wants to find Phichit, he wants to go _home_ , and try to forget this ever, _ever happened_.

He rakes his hands through his hair before pulling his phone out of his pocket, trying to dial Phichit’s number, but he won’t pick up. _He isn’t picking up_. Probably can’t hear it over the sound of the music.

Yuuri needs to leave. _Now_.

He hastily makes his way out of the club, and the fresh air hits him like a brick to the face, suddenly feeling so exposed after it felt like he was slowly being asphyxiated back in the club. He leans forward, clutching his knees, and dry-heaves.

Nothing comes out.

He hollers a cab home.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Yuuri gets back to his dorm, he heads straight for the toilet and retches the contents of his stomach into the bowl. His throat burns, raw from the mix of alcohol and stomach acid, and tears stream down his face in rivulets. He lets out a pained cry, in utter disbelief of what he had just done. He curls up into the corner of the bathroom, snot and tears making a mess of his face.

He has to clean up. He _has_ to, before Phichit gets home. Yuuri shakily rises to his feet and flushes the toilet twice, then rinses his mouth out with Listerine. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, his skin pallid, yet his eyes are swollen and rimmed with red. His lips are still puffy from when the man had kissed him, slid his tongue into his mouth.  

Yuuri spat into the sink once more, feeling filthy and _dirty_. Feeling _worthless_.

In just one night, he had ruined his life. He ruined _everything_. How could he have sunken so low?

Storming into he and Phichit’s shared dorm, he hastily pulls the wads of cash out of his pockets and hurls it at the wall, his vocal chords straining from the screams threatening to claw its way out of his throat.

Blood money.

_Worthless_.

Guilt.

 

* * *

 

(Yet that didn’t stop Yuuri from licking his wounds, stashing the cash away in the back of his closet, where no one would think to find wads of cash tucked under the floorboards of a broke college student’s dorm.)

 

(He promptly and quietly paid his debts afterwards.)

 

* * *

 

After what had transpired at the club, Yuuri just wasn’t quite the same anymore. He’s more fidgety now, always on edge. Above all, he’s constantly afraid that something will happen, and that it’s just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Something _bad_.

Phichit had found it suspicious at first, but after many hasty reassurances from Yuuri, he’d chalked it up to Yuuri’s many financial woes. Yuuri still kept his two jobs, just in case. 

He sent ten thousand dollars to his family in Japan, saying it came from a new job he had, a one time thing. His mother called him and told him that they were fine, that they didn’t need the money, and that Yuuri should focus on his studies first and foremost. After a bit more insistence, his mother accepted the money anyway.

Yuuri needed them to take it. He _needed_ his family to take the money, if anything, just to make him feel like what he did wasn’t an entirely selfish decision. That it benefited his family too, however tainted that money was.

Its value was still the same, and when he sent it to them, it wasn’t as if they would know any better. Right?

 

* * *

 

Almost half a year had passed since that incident, and Yuuri had started to slowly let his guard down when no repercussions had arisen. It was always lingering in the back of his mind, but he had eventually learnt to focus on other things again, and acted more like how he used to be, before all this happened.

 

* * *

 

(‘Letting his guard down’?)

(He should have known better.)

(Life offers nor owes no one a brief respite.)

 

* * *

 

Yuuri exits the small deli near campus, having had a quick lunch before he had to head back for his afternoon classes. He’s busy trying to shove his change back into his wallet, head ducked down, when someone suddenly slams into him, taking him by surprise.

“S-Sorry,” he automatically stammers out, and when he looks up at the person he’s bumped into, his stomach lurches, blood suddenly running cold.

It’s the woman from several months ago, back in the club. She’s dressed in casual streetwear, and if he didn’t glance up at her, he wouldn’t have known any better.

“Hey, how are you?” She says, letting out a boisterous laugh. Several passersby give them a curious glance.

She grabs Yuuri’s hand and shakes it, “It was good seeing you again!”

Without waiting for Yuuri to respond, she briskly walks away, soon out of sight as she blended in with the crowd. Yuuri furrows his brows at her before realising she’d left a slip of torn notebook paper in his hand. He warily opens it up, and when he sees what’s written on it, his eyes well up with tears.

It’s a death sentence in one word.

 

 

** RUN **


	3. can't call a bluff with a dead man's hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But in this miserable state where we are  
> driven from that other serene life  
> we have one solace only, that is death: 
> 
> which is his retribution, who led him to this,  
> he who, in another’s power, near to the end,  
> remains bound with a heavier chain.”  
> — A pie’ de’ colli ove la bella vesta, Francesco Petrarca

 

** RUN **

 

Yuuri’s grip on the flimsy slip of paper falters, falling from his grasp and fluttering to the floor. His heart is beating out of his chest and he feels like he’s suffocating. His breathing falters, shallow and inconsistent. Almost _afraid_ to, he casts a hesitant glance over his shoulder.

His fears are confirmed when he sees two burly men making their way over to him, expressions stony as they cut through the crowd with ease. His mind is screaming at him to run, _run_ , and yet it’s like his body won’t follow what his mind is saying. There’s this disconnect, and when it finally hits him, it crashes over him like a tidal wave, prompting him to jolt into action. A cold fear spikes in his gut, overwhelmingly foreboding. The world around him spins, and before he can even register what he’s doing, he’s turned on his heel and is briskly running down the crowded street, head ducked down and apologies automatically spilling from his lips as he brushes past numerous passersby.

It’s fight or flight, and he knows better than _anyone else_ that he has no other choice than to run, if only to stall his impending death for just a little while longer.

Amidst all this, he feels a rush of regret— regret he’d even agreed to slip that pill into the guy’s drink. _Really_ , what the hell did he think would happen? That this would just— _blow over_? With no consequences?! Really, how could he have been so fucking _naïve_? So fucking _stupid_? And now it was here, crawling out of the woodwork to bite him back in the ass.

And ultimately, it’d be a debt paid with his _life_.

He should’ve known. He should’ve _known_.

The pace of his footsteps matches those of the two men just several feet behind him. They’re closing in on him, and he needs to lose them— and _fast_. There’s a convenience store just by that corner— maybe he’ll be able to duck inside if he’s fast enough and lose them there, that they would run past the store. He invests the last of his energy into a final burst of speed, sprinting around the corner and nearly tripping on his feet as he rushes into the store.

As soon as he’s inside, the shopkeeper eyes him warily and he glances down at his feet, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His shoulders are hunched as he closes in on himself, hackles raised. He slowly walks along the different aisles, past various other people in the shop minding their own business.

A minute lapses with no one else bursting into the convenience store. Perhaps they’ve already passed? Either way, he’ll just have to wait them out. He lingers by the wall full of chilled beverages in the coolers, feigning a look of contemplation so the cashier wouldn’t suspect him of being a shoplifter or anything. He catches a glimpse of himself in the convex mirror in the corner of the room and he looks like a _wreck_. His skin is pallid, though his cheeks are flushed red from running minutes earlier. He glances away, an overwhelming shame and guilt filling his gut. He can’t bear to look at himself.

After a few minutes, he reaches for a bottle of Gatorade, hand shaking, and checks out at the cashier, eyes never leaving the glass doors. He adds a candy bar at the counter at the last minute, and the cashier eyes him in irritation before punching it in. When he receives his change, he takes a moment to shove the bills and coins in his pocket, and the shopkeeper turns away, muttering something about ‘stupid fucking junkies’.

Yuuri pointedly ignores him. Better to leave the man believing what he will than knowing what actually is.

He stares at the street through the safety of the convenience store, taking one last breath— perhaps, even in a literal sense— and pushing through the doors, stepping outside. For a moment he’s frozen. Every inch of him tenses up in anticipation; he’s on edge, awaiting for the very worst.

And something about it is almost _mocking_ , the way the world just goes on. Oblivious to his inner turmoil— one caused by no one but himself. People continue making their way down the street, laughing and talking to each other, or going along their day. The world goes on.

In that moment, he realises just how little of an impact his death would make. It would not even make a ripple in a pond, he thinks. Somehow, he manages to stumble into motion, automatically making his way back to the campus.

The world won’t wait for you to pick up the pieces. The world is beholden to no one.

 

* * *

 

Fear consumes him for the rest of the day. It festers on him, _within_ him, and there’s this unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach he can’t shrug off, no matter how hard he tries to. His focus in class is visibly affected by it— several times, his professor had stopped the lecture just to ask him if he was okay.

Yuuri had waved it off, of course, blamed it on a fever he doesn’t have. But if he wanted to _live_ , he had to seriously consider his other options. Most reasonable of all, he could turn himself into the authorities, for one. He could talk to the guidance counsellor, ask for the man’s advice and insight on the whole matter. Maybe he could even confide in Phichit; finally let his roommate know what’s been going on with him for the past few months.

But at the same time, even though he knew it was the _right_ thing to do, he found that a big part of himself didn’t _want to_. He already had a reputation in school, established himself as a diligent, honest and _hardworking_ student. He didn’t want to ruin that. He didn’t want to drag the police into this, he didn’t want to drag his _family_ into this; not when they’ve already given up so much for him.

No, God, no; it’d break his family’s heart.

He _can’t_ go to the police, no matter how serious the situation is. What could they possibly do to protect him? What’re the chances they’ll even believe what he’s saying? What if they turn him away anyway?

No, he can’t trust them.

He can’t trust his student counsellor either. Who knows what the man will do? Turn him in, inevitably; probably. Yuuri’s a threat to the rest of the campus. Once everyone else gets wind of this, the whole school will riot, call for his arrest, and disgrace him on every single social media platform until there’s nowhere else to run, nowhere else to turn. There’ll be no more future for him to look forward to. It’ll be a black stain on his permanent record, hanging over him like a cloud. Irremovable. 

There’s nowhere else to turn where there wouldn’t be repercussions.

And it’s all his _fault_.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri sighs, casting a glance at his phone for the nth time that night. Finally, his shift is over. He’s in charge of closing up shop though, so he was the only one left in the small café. Just as he moves to lock the door and turn the closed sign, the same two men from earlier come in, nonchalant. He freezes, rooted to his spot. 

The two men barely glance over him and examine the menu hanging overhead the cashier, and for a moment, he hopes that they don’t realise or notice that it’s _him_. But to his dismay, one of the men shoot him a smile, saccharine bordering on sinister.

And he just _knows_ they know.

They order two black coffees and Yuuri grimly nods, preparing their orders without another word. When he places their drinks on their table, where they’re seated at near the door, he wrings his hands into the fabric of his apron and shifts from foot to foot. “If you need anything else, I’ll—” 

“Actually,” the other man starts, and Yuuri stills, absolutely _petrified_. “A glazed donut would be great.”

Yuuri nods, scrambling to the back of the counter. “Right away, sir!”

They laugh, and as he’s preparing a glazed donut in the microwave, he can see them talking under their breaths from the corner of his eye. His gaze skitters over to one of the bread knives on the counter, contemplating whether or not to pocket it if need be. Maybe he should call 911 while he still can. Tears well up in his eyes at the very thought. He never thought he’d die like this.

He— He never even got to say goodbye to Phichit or to his family— oh God, his _family_. Who knows what those two men will even do to him?  

The microwave _pings_ , bringing him out of his thoughts. He sniffles and opens the microwave up, hands still shaking as he reaches for the white ceramic plate inside. He places it on a black tray, prepares a napkin, fork and knife and sets it to the side. His hands shake the entire way back.

“You need help with that?” One of them drawls, reaching for the tray and taking it out of Yuuri’s hands.

“Jesus, kid,” the other one says. “Are you alright?”

A shift in the atmosphere. It’s suffocating.

“You seem kinda nervous.”

Yuuri gulps, clenching his fists. He forces out a nervous chuckle, taking a small step back. When he doesn’t get another response, he hurries back to the counter, back turned to them as he stifled a sob. What would you do if you one day found yourself face-to-face with death? Would you just give up? Or would you— Yuuri’s gaze drifts over to the bread knife, fingers twitching— would you fight back and give it your all?

Even though he doesn’t want to, even though he wants nothing more than for the floor to swallow him whole, he _knows_ he has to make a choice.

Fatalism.

He reaches for the knife, tightening his grip on the black plastic handle.

His heart is rapidly beating against his chest, and he can feel the blood thrumming through his veins. He slowly drags the knife along the linoleum counter and down to his side, just out of view. Above him, the fluorescent lights flicker. 

(In hindsight, perhaps he should’ve realised that this was one of the key turning points in his life.) 

(One that may have very well set his future in stone.)

Yuuri feels the weight of the knife in his hand, testing his grip as he turned back around to face the two men. He wields it as one would a rosary; along with it, he feels a sense of safety, even when he’s _anything_ but safe. Yuuri can’t quite comprehend it himself, but he’s suddenly awash with a sense of calm.

His hand does not quiver.

 

* * *

 

They take their time. They linger as if they have all the time in the world, and when they laugh, it’s raucous; boisterous; _proud_. They know they have the upper hand. Yuuri leans against the counter and watches them carefully, though making sure it isn’t too obvious. The last thing he needs is to provoke them, as dire the circumstances are.  

Several minutes lapse and finally they’ve finished their drinks, slamming the porcelain mugs back down with a bit too much force. Yuuri flinches. They stand up and leave a couple of wadded up bills on the table before exiting the café without another word. Yuuri gawks at their retreating figures, speechless. 

That’s… Was that it?

They just _left_. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He blinks, running a hand through his hair with his free hand. Weren’t they going to..?  

He makes his way to the front of the café, to the window-side tables they had just occupied. He picks up the wad of cash and slowly piles the coffee mugs onto the plate before taking it to the back to be washed.

Silence hangs heavy in the room, save for the sound of running water. Once he finishes washing the dishes, he slowly closes up shop, his movements lethargic. It’s like time had slowed down to a crawl. Even though they’re gone, there’s this foreboding feeling in his gut he can’t will away.

The moment he finishes locking up the café and pockets the keys, he feels a sharp pain spread throughout the back of his head. 

He’s out like a light.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is literally punched awake. 

He takes in a deep gulp of air, reeling in from the pain. He vaguely registers incoherent screaming, and before he can try and make sense of it— or anything at all, really— he’s punched again. The impact leaves his nose and mouth bloodied, and he coughs up blood. He can taste it on his tongue; feel the blood from his nose trickling back down his airways and into his lungs.

The deafening ringing in his ears dies down, and he can only make out the sound of his laboured breathing. He can’t bring himself to move.

He feels someone grip his chin tightly, forcing him to face them. He can barely keep his eyes open, and one of them, he thinks, is already starting to swell shut. 

“So this is the kid, huh?” The voice says— a man. The man spits in his face and Yuuri internally recoils in a mixture of fear and disgust. “Bet you thought we wouldn’t find out. But guess what, kid? We did.”

Yuuri says nothing in response. 

The man turns Yuuri’s face from side-to-side, as if inspecting him. “What’re you, a Chink? Definitely Asian.” 

Yuuri still does not speak. He daren’t.

“Korean, then. No, wait— _Japanese_. You’re a Jap, aren’t you?”

In the background, Yuuri can hear other people laugh. When the laughter dies down, the man turns Yuuri’s head to face him once more, tilting upwards. Even more blood trickles back into Yuuri’s nostrils, and he swallows instinctively.

“Who sent you?”

Yuuri froze. He didn’t _know_ her name. Even as he desperately racked through his memory, he _knew_ he didn’t know. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He can taste the blood on his tongue. 

After several attempts, finally, he manages to rasp out the truth. Because what else does he have to offer? “I… I don’t know.”

Again, raucous laughter. Mocking him.

The man lets go of Yuuri’s chin, chuckling darkly. “You ‘don’t know’? Can you believe this guy? Says he doesn’t _fucking know_. Bullshit, it’s fucking bullshit. C’mon, kid, don’t make me say it again. The sooner we get this over with, the easier it’ll be for everyone.”

“No, I _honestly don’t know,_ ” Yuuri insists, desperately trying to convey his honesty. What would it take for them to believe him? “She didn’t tell me her name, but I know what she looks like.” 

Not even a moment later, a pained yell escapes Yuuri’s lips when he’s kicked in the ribs. He keels over, face flat against the floor. He’s gritting his teeth, tears streaming down his face in rivulets from the pain. His head is painfully yanked back up, the man gripping a fistful his hair. For the first time, Yuuri opens his eyes and looks at him. 

He looks like any other guy you’d pass by on the street, which threw him off more than he expected. He’s staring Yuuri down, and Yuuri was certain that if looks could kill, he’d already have died a painful death. When the man raises a fist up, Yuuri flinches on instinct and laughter fills the dimly lit basement.

The man looks like he’s about to say something when there’s a loud bang, the sound reminiscent of a gunshot. Yuuri yelps, expecting the impact any second, but nothing happens. But instead, the man drops Yuuri’s head and rises to his feet, walking away from him.

He hears a female’s voice, angry and slowly rising in pitch. Yuuri hesitantly moves to wipe the blood away from his face with his arm, staining his shirt’s sleeve, wary of the presence of more people entering the room.

“It’s none of your business what I do, Helena,” the man bellows, and when Yuuri chances a glance up, his whole body freezes, eyes widening in recognition and his heartbeat rattling against his chest.

It’s _her_ , the woman is _her_. The woman’s name is Helena, and oh God, she’s standing right there, right now. The one person they’ve been looking for is right in front of them, and they don’t even know. Yuuri starts to feel sick to his stomach.

They _won’t_ know. They’ll never know, even if Yuuri told him now, because they wouldn’t believe him. Why would they? He has nothing to back up his claims.

She places a hand on the man’s shoulder and her voice drops to something more placating, more saccharine. Eventually the man shakes his head and whispers something in her ear before brushing past her, followed by the other two men who were in the room with them.

When the door shuts behind them, it’s just him and Helena in the room. She hastily makes her way over to him, dropping to her knees.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Yuuri can’t help but grit out, narrowing his eyes at her.

She raises her hands up. “I know, I know—”

“You said _nothing was going to happen_!” His voice is quivering; teetering on the edge.

“Nothing _was_ going to happen,” she insists, “but they found out somehow.”

“So why are you here?” Yuuri asks, and when she moves to help him up, he hesitantly reaches out for her arm and uses it to pull himself up into a sitting position.

“I want to help you,” she says, and Yuuri looks at her blankly.

“You have no reason to.” 

She has the audacity to look at him incredulously. “You’d rather if I just left you to the wolves? It would’ve been a dead end. They would have taken it out on you.” 

“Then why did they leave?” 

She pauses a moment before answering. “Because I told them to. They’ll listen to me—”

Yuuri sits up against his body’s wishes, and every bone in his body is aching for some type of relief. He lets out a small hiss of pain when there’s a sharp pain in his ribs because he moved the wrong way. “Why don’t you tell them that _you_ did it then? I never asked for this!” 

“Because it’s _complicated_ ,” she reasons, but Yuuri doesn’t believe a word she says.

“Complicated _how_? Did you kill him?”

The boldness of the question surprises him, even though he was the one who had asked it. Where did that come from? To Yuuri’s continued confusion and frustration, Helena laughs— _laughs_ — though there’s not a hint of genuine humour in it. If anything, it’s absolutely dripping with vitriol. “And if I did? He deserves it. He deserves the worst.”

Yuuri falls silent, speechless; he takes in her ash blond hair falling over shoulders in soft curls, her sharp green eyes, her flowery yellow sundress. She’s beautiful, and just by looking at her, the last thing you would expect her to be is a cold-blooded murderer. It’s jarring, to say the least. 

But then again, you usually don’t look at people and wonder whether or not they’re murderers.

“So what happens now?” Yuuri asks her. He wants to know— desperately _needs_ to know— if he’ll keep living his life in fear. He can’t go on like this anymore. What about his family? What could he possibly say? They’re bound to find out at some point. The only reprieve he got was the fact that his family lived thousands of miles away, but once it comes down to it, it won’t change the fact that they can read him like an open book. He’s actually amazed he’s managed to get this far without Phichit finding out, but either way, the past few months have been hell. 

Is he— is he selfish for thinking that? For having a sense of self-preservation? It’s because of _him_ a man is dead, and _he’s_ the one who feels like he’s been living a nightmare? Yuuri may not have killed that man, but he might as well have. He was the enabler. He’s the reason why a man is _dead_. Six-feet-under. Pushing up daisies.

Yuuri willingly drugged him, for fuck’s sake. He already suspected it then— he should’ve _known_ this would happen!

“Look,” she says, “All they want are names. Names I can get for you, but from this moment onwards, you’ll have to play your cards right. They won’t harm you if you become an asset, especially if I take you under my wing. I can _show you_ how to get what you want, show you how to _thrive_.”

Yuuri regards her carefully. “And if I say no?”

Her answer comes quickly and without a hint of hesitation. “Then I leave and they’ll come back. I can’t guarantee you’ll make it out alive.”

He inhales sharply. His head is spinning. This was it. The ultimatum.

He needed to make a decision. A single tear rolls down his cheek as he turns away. Because really, did he ever have a choice?

 

* * *

 

(This is how Yuuri signed his life away.)

 

* * *

 

**Cancún, Mexico  
****2011**  

Yuuri is quiet, watching the waves roll and crash onto the shore. He pulls his knees up to his chest and runs his hands through the loose white sand. He’s lost in his head again, and pain blooms inside him and makes his eyes well up with tears.

He’s thought about this for a while now.

It was a necessity, he thinks. For the best. 

It would be best if he disappeared, and not just for a while, but for good. Permanently. Nothing good would ever come out of associating with him, and in these past few months, he’s done more than bent over backwards just to make sure no one that mattered to him knew what he had gotten himself into.

He’ll run away, go to a place where no one he knows can ever find him. His throat closes up and he wipes away a tear that manages to escape. He’ll— He’ll need to say goodbye to his family. Tell them that he loves them one last time. It’s for the best, really, because he could never bear telling them the fucked up things he’s done. He’ll call them, tell them goodbye, and the thing that _hurts_ is that he’ll have left them thinking they’d hear from him again.

But they won’t. They never will.

He’s going to disappear from their lives, because really, _really_ , this has got to be for the best. He’s mulled over it a thousand times, trying to justify it all in his head. There’s a part of him telling him there’s still a way out of this, and that he’s just got to pay his dues, but there’s another bigger part of him deathly afraid of seeing his family and catching a glimpse of fear in their eyes when they look at him.

He doesn’t want to drag his family’s name into the mud, especially since they never raised him to be like this. Yuuri’s supposed to be better than this. _Supposed to._

Yuuri reaches for the phone beside him and holds it to his chest, trying to settle the frantic beating of his heart. After a moment to collect his thoughts the best he can, he unlocks it and scrolls through his phone for his mother’s number. Just seeing it makes him want to break down crying.

He taps on the number and it immediately calls out, and he’s unable to help the tears that finally manage to fall down his face. He buries his face in his hand, mouth parted around a silent cry as he tried to keep it together— one last time. One last time. 

_“Hi, Yuuri!”_ He hears his mother say, and he scrambles to switch it to speaker phone. _“How’s spring break? Isn’t it a bit early for you to be awake?”_

“It’s going great,” he says, “Phichit and I are at a hotel with a view of the beach. I, ah, left the hotel early this morning so I could call you.”

His throat closes up with emotion, tears freely rolling down his cheeks now, dripping down his chin. “I miss you, and dad, and Mari, and Vicchan… How’s the onsen? I sent some money before I left for Cancún, did you get it yet?” 

_“We did, we did. But Yuuri, you should focus on your studies! We all believe in you, but you don’t need to go out of your way to send us money. You’ve already sent us more than we know what to do with, and that’s on top of renovations your sister wants to make.”_  

Yuuri smiles sadly. “I know, I know. I should,” he pauses to take a deep breath. “Focus on my studies. Yeah.”

His face scrunches up just thinking about what he’s going to do. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come home for spring break.”

_“It’s fine,”_ Hiroko says, even though it really isn’t. _“You’re free to come home anytime. You know that, right?”_

“Yeah,” Yuuri breathes out, wiping at his runny nose. “I will.” 

And really, it’s just another promise he’ll break. 

A brief silence falls between them as Yuuri tries to collect his thoughts. “Mama, you love me right? And I’ll always be your little boy, right?”

_“I—”_ Hiroko startles, _“Of course, Yuuri. I love you very much. You’ll always be my little Yuu-chan.”_

And that’s when he cracks. “I love you too,” Yuuri says, voice cracking at the very end. _And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._  

_“Yuuri, are you alright, sweetie?”_  

Yuuri takes a deep breath, nodding even though she can’t see it. He holds a palm to his mouth. “I am, I— I just feel homesick right now. I want to go home, mama.”

_“Ah. I know how you feel, sweetie. Let’s Skype again soon, alright? I’m sure Vicchan misses seeing your face too.”_  

“Of course, of course. Mama, please tell everyone else I love and miss them too. I really, _really_ do.”

_“Will do! I love you, Yuuri.”_

Yuuri buries his face into his hands, still nodding. “I love you too, mama. Goodbye.”

_“Take care! Talk to you soon.”_

Yuuri presses ‘end call’ and falls apart right then and there, violent sobs wracking his body.

 

* * *

(Later that night, after giving Phichit one last hug, Yuuri waded into the dark waters of the crowded beaches of Cancún and never came back.)

(He swam to a small boat a bit off-shore and clambered onto it. As it travelled away from the beach, Yuuri could see the fragments of his old life slowly fade away.) 

(After a bit of bribery, the coroner had falsified the documents regarding the body that was found later in 2012. It was never Katsuki Yuuri’s body to begin with, but instead, it was a scapegoat. Another life taken to preserve his own.)


	4. tell yourself that it's just business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOVE IS IN THE AIR  
> BUT I CAN'T
> 
> BREATHE

**Macau  
** **2014**

Christmas eve, Yuuri shifts in bed; turns to face the man sleeping beside him. A warm smile crosses his lips when he sees his lover’s face. He sees his phone light up the room and he reaches for it, a twinge of pain in his lower back making itself known. And when he stares at the incoming text he gets, it’s like time has completely stopped dead in its tracks. He daren’t breathe, immediately shifting from a state of blissful languor to wide awake.

 

Curtain call.

He shuts his phone screen off, setting it back down on the bedside table. He lies back down and stares at the ceiling, feeling tears welling up in his eyes.

Here’s to another new lesson learnt: Don’t fall in love, since love is not meant for people like you. People who take and take and take, and with no remorse.

Perhaps it is just that something must be taken from him as a means of evening out what he’s done. And it’s with his luck he’ll be the one to take the one solace he’s found with his own two hands.

He places the tips of his fingers on his lover’s lips, calling for his name. “Jianyu.”

Immediately, Jianyu rouses awake, brown eyes meeting Yuuri’s own. Jianyu smiles at him and shifts closer. “Takahiro.”

He moves the covers downwards and runs his hands up and down Yuuri’s bare side, hand faltering when it brushes against the soulmark on Yuuri’s hip. Yuuri knows it still irks Jianyu at times; the fact they weren’t soulmates. Yuuri had never met his soulmate before, and with the way his life has turned out, he’s pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he never _will_ meet his supposedly destined ‘other half’. It happens, but for Yuuri, it’s fine. He’s sure his soulmate would never want to be associated with someone like him anyway, and there was no guarantee his soulmate hadn’t already found someone else to be with.

Jianyu’s soulmate had died several years earlier from a car collision, but he was insistent he never loved anyone like he loved Takahiro. He’d be willing to give him anything and everything Takahiro wanted of him, including pertinent details in regards to the arms dealers he’s been meeting with regularly, just because Takahiro had asked him oh-so sweetly.

Jianyu is in love with someone that doesn’t exist. And now Yuuri’s contractor has gotten what he’s wanted, deciding that Jianyu’s life wasn’t worth it anymore. 

So now it’s come to this.

“Why are you awake?” Jianyu asks him, a hand reaching up to cup Yuuri’s cheek. Yuuri leans into the gesture, turning so he could kiss Jianyu’s open palm.

Yuuri dismisses him. “It’s nothing. Just had a bit of trouble sleeping last night.”

“Alright.” 

Yuuri smiles at him, but it’s faint; worn at the edges. Jianyu is too drowsy with sleep to notice. He leans in and kisses his lover, wrapping his arm around Jianyu’s neck. “Go back to sleep.”

None the wiser, Jianyu settles back into the sheets, a smile of contentment on his face. Almost immediately, the smile drops from Yuuri’s face, curling down into a watery frown. He waits, silent, for Jianyu to fall back asleep. When his breathing evens out, Yuuri slowly extricates himself from Jianyu’s embrace and pads over to his bag. Under the guise of a makeup kit, he pulls a gun out of the shimmery gold bag, padded with neoprene. The familiar weight of the gun is heavy in his palm. He fishes through it and screws the silencer on, checking to see if the cartridge still has any bullets inside. It does. He had always used his gun sparingly, never touching it at all unless it was of the utmost importance. Whenever he needed to kill, sometimes it was to the preference of his contractors, but for most part, it was entirely up to him. He didn’t want Jianyu to suffer more than he already did. He was unbelievably kind, but he was too gullible. Naïve. He let Yuuri in with such ease, it was no wonder why Yuuri had taken to him— why he had lost sight of the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do.

Yuuri takes a deep breath, pressing the butt of the gun into his temple as he restlessly shifts from foot to foot, waist-deep in his thoughts. It’ll be a quick and hopefully painless death. He barely even notices when a single tear makes its way down his cheek. He’s already cried too many times to count, and it isn’t his first time taking someone’s life, so why is he so affected by it now?

Because he _loves_ Jianyu? If he really loved him, he should’ve had no qualms running away with him, leaving his present life behind him for good. If Yuuri really does love him, then why did it take such little effort to reach for his gun? Why— Why isn’t he hesitating as much as he’s supposed to?

Is it, perhaps, because of the knowledge that if he were to let Jianyu live, his contractor would not only come after Jianyu, but they’d come after Yuuri too? Or the fact that once they’ve got Jianyu, they’ll probably make his death one that’s slow and full of suffering just to spite Yuuri for crossing them?

Is this love? 

His grip on the gun tightens.

Maybe, perhaps, it isn’t love— but it’s as merciful as it’s going to get.

Yuuri would rather take matters into his own hands than let Jianyu suffer more than he should.

Finally, he comes to a decision— or, rather, he finally steels himself to do what he had intended to do all along. He switches the safety off his gun and whirls around to face him, only to find himself face-to-face with a very awake Jianyu, the only man he had ever loved. The look of betrayal on his face leaves Yuuri feeling like he’d just been stabbed in the gut. Something inside him shatters.

“Takahiro,” Jianyu says, voice cautious in his regard, though not without a hint of fear, “What are you doing?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I-I’m sorry, I—”

And with a steady hand, Yuuri shoots.

The trajectory of the bullet makes its way right in the middle of Jianyu’s forehead, burrowing its way out of the back of his head and embedding itself in the drywall behind him. His body shifts backwards upon impact, and as expected, it does not move after. There are blood splatters all over the wall, and when Yuuri realises what he’s done, he immediately drops the gun, bringing his hands to his mouth. It clatters noisily as it crashes to the ground, followed by a deafening silence. His pulse is rabbiting from within the confines of his chest and his hands are starting to shake. 

He takes everything in— Jianyu’s body, the bloody drywall with bits of flesh on it, the bed in which they’d just lain, stained with blood, and the scent of blood slowly seeping into the air— and it hits him all at once. A bloodcurdling scream claws its way out from the back of his throat as he immediately moves to Jianyu’s side, cradling him in his arms and dirtying himself with his lover’s spilled blood.

He begs for Jianyu to wake, _wake_ , but he isn’t moving, and he never does, and Yuuri’s fucked _everything up_. He always fucks everything up.

 

* * *

 

(The crew hired for clean up found Yuuri shivering in the corner of the shower, curled up on the tiles and a gun with an empty chamber lying by his feet.)

(There was a bullet embedded in where the mirror used to be.)

(If his gun hadn’t mysteriously misfired, he would have been successful in taking his own life.)

 

* * *

 

**Beijing  
** **Present day**

Yuuri finally snaps out of his stupor and drags himself out of the bath, droplets of water dripping onto the luxuriously fluffy carpet. He leans over to unplug the water, quickly reaching for the half-empty decanter of whiskey and the shot glass he’d perused floating in the water, and he sets it down on the marble counter.

He listens to the water slowly swirling down the drain, reaching for a silk bathrobe and fastening it around himself. Yuuri leans against the counter and stares at his reflection. The lack of sleep leaves his skin pallid, the dark circles around his eyes more noticeable than ever. He reaches for the hairdryer by the sink and turns it on, running his hands through his hair as he dries it. When he’s done, he reaches for the decanter and glass of whiskey, sauntering out of the bathroom.

The rest of the hotel room is enveloped in darkness, all the lights shut off save for the one in the bathroom. Yuuri takes a seat on the arm chair facing the bed and sets the liquor down on the small table beside him, crossing one leg over the other. He ensconces himself further into his seat, expression passive as he stares at the unmoving figure lying on the bed.

His latest target was a corrupt low-ranking government official, who had a reputation underground for trafficking young children from the countryside for sexual exploitation. Someone— his younger brother— hated him enough to want to take him out, and Yuuri took delight in watching the life in the man’s eyes fade away as he asphyxiated on his own blood, the mixture of liquor and a select combination of drugs doing their dirty work and destroying him from inside out.

He deserved to die. Yuuri may be no better than scum, but this man was lower than scum. The lowest of the low. And it may have been hypocritical of Yuuri to say the man deserved to die— because who is he to say whether or not one is deserving of death?— but he honestly thinks he made the world a little less shitty, at _least_ , by ending this man’s life.

Yuuri glances out of the window. It’s still dark out and it’s much too early for him to leave. He had been hired for his ‘services’ up until the next morning, when the sun was already up. He’d have to wait until later so as not to rouse any suspicion. He could have kept the man alive for a little longer, but Yuuri recoiled every time the man put his hands on him, feeling bile rise up the back of his throat. Anyone would have done the same, he supposed— the man was already in his late sixties and if there were any way to put it, then Yuuri would just leave it at ‘the inside matches the out’. 

Over the past few years, Yuuri had steadily grown in his craft, honing it to the point where he had the power and authority to choose offers given to him. He knew people who knew people who could get him places, and with his own two hands, he had created a network of people he knew he could rely on. Helena was still one of them, though he hadn’t talked to her in a few months. The last he’d seen of her was when they briefly met up during a stopover in Dubai, conversation hushed and discreet as they nursed paper cups of brewed coffee. And just like that, they parted ways without another word.

Maybe he’ll find her again someday. Maybe he won’t. As much as Yuuri clung onto that single hope he could somehow escape the vicious cycle that’s consumed him, with this kind of lifestyle, there was never a guarantee there’d be a tomorrow to look forward to. Same goes for Helena. They changed their burners phones and numbers often as a safety measure, though he _knows_ for a fact Helena makes sure they keep in the same orbit. As much as possible, Yuuri tries not to keep a phone on him out of fear of it being bugged, but he knows it’s one of the few ways his contractor or client can contact him with convenience, anytime, anywhere.

For a given price— and usually a high one at that, given Yuuri’s expertise— he’ll be at your complete beck and call. To the best of his ability, he’ll charm his way into the hearts of men, and if he really needed to, he’ll _wring_ that information out of them with a few timed strokes or seductive whispers full of promise. He manipulates, until they, too, are at his beck and call. For him, they’d bend and break, and though there were instances where Yuuri had failed to secure a target’s trust, there were many other more where he was successful at what he did.

He bides his time at first, but after a few hours, he grows restless and makes his way over to the bed, covering the man’s face with the bedcovers. Already, he could see the rigor mortis settling in, the man’s fingers stiff and curled inwards. Of all things, Yuuri always hated rigor mortis the most. Thankfully, he never stuck around long enough to see the bloating.

He turns away and slowly starts to get dressed, choosing to stay in the small hall leading to the room instead of the middle of the room itself. Even like this, he feels too exposed. He shimmies back into the tight red slip he’d worn the night before and pulls a sleek black faux fur coat over his shoulders. He makes his way back to the bathroom with his makeup kit— his _real_ one— and does his make up, swiping on a deep crimson lipstick.

When he exits the bathroom, _finally_ , he can see the sunrise creeping over the tops of the surrounding skyscrapers. Just a little longer and he’ll be able to leave.

He reaches for his burner phone and checks if there’s any response yet from the contractor. Nothing, though he knows there’ll be a limousine to pick him up and drop him off at the hotel he’s actually staying in.

The moment it’s nine in the morning, Yuuri doesn’t bother sparing the corpse another glance before he leaves the room, softly closing the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri exits the hotel, he finds the designated limousine in front of the building, already waiting for him. Curiously enough, there are two armed guards flanking the door. Yuuri regards them carefully, becoming more and more aware of the handgun in his bag. He slides a pair of sunglasses on and one of them opens the door for him, motioning for Yuuri to get in.

Yuuri narrows his eyes and gets in. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to be surprised when he sees another man sitting on the opposite end of the plush black leather, carefully nursing a flute of bubbly champagne. He’s a foreigner, blond hair, blue eyes, and he doesn’t look familiar to Yuuri at all.

The door closes beside him and the limousine automatically pulls out onto the street, navigating its way through the city’s traffic. 

They’re silent for a long moment, visibly gauging each other, before Yuuri is the first one to speak.

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Sergei. I come on behalf of the Pakhan of the Lyashev Bratva. _You_ , on the other hand— You are Eros, yes?” The man has a distinct Russian accent. It’s definitely Russian.

Yuuri tilts his head in regard. “Yes, and?”

Sergei does not say anything, merely reaching for an empty flute and pouring Yuuri his own glass of champagne. He hands it over to him and Yuuri takes a small sip, mostly out of courtesy.

“Your services were referred to us by an associate of the Pakhan; Mr. Zhang, if you may recall.”

Yuuri makes a gesture with his champagne flute, motioning for Sergei to continue. He reaches into his briefcase and produces a dossier filled with different documents and pictures. He hands it over to Yuuri, and when he opens it up, the first thing he sees is a greyscale picture of a man flanked by two bodyguards.

It’s a bird’s-eye view photo, slightly grainy but good enough to distinguish the man’s profile nonetheless.

“Viktor Nikiforov,” Sergei says, “After the former Pakhan, Yakov Feltsman, passed away last year, Nikiforov was appointed Pakhan of the Feltsman Bratva. He’s worked for Yakov for years before that, and anyone could see from a mile away that when Yakov kicked the bucket, Viktor would be next in line.”

Yuuri nods, going through the different documents. Majority of them are in Russian, the Cyrillic letters indistinguishable to him. He sighs, setting the picture back in its place and closing the dossier.

“As of late, the Feltsman Bratva has been encroaching on _our_ territory. It wasn’t that big of an issue back then, but that Nikiforov has been starting to get ahead of himself. His pride will be his ultimate downfall.”

“Hubris,” Yuuri supplies easily. “So what exactly do you require of my services?”

Sergei looks at him seriously. “We want you to take him out.”

Yuuri removes his sunglasses and folds them onto his lap. “Why me? Why not just hire a hitman to get the job done?”

Sergei lets out an exasperated groan. “Because we’ve already _tried_. Several times, all thwarted. The man is unshakeable. _But_ —” he stretches his hand out and Yuuri hands him back the dossier. “After we took the time to observe his habits, we believe your expertise is just what we need to take him out.”

Sergei opens the dossier again and rifles through some documents, and for a prolonged moment, Yuuri catches a glimpse of Viktor Nikiforov as a child, long silvery hair tumbling down his back as he beams at the camera, blue eyes lighting up as he does so. He can feel something shift inside him; something forlorn, something he can’t quite _explain_ , mourning the loss of innocence. In the young Nikiforov’s eyes, he could see himself when he was younger. A pity, actually, how someone so pure could grow up to be so crooked; himself included.

Yuuri is brought out of his thoughts when Sergei hands him a series of photos, coloured this time though still quite blurry. The pictures are more recent, and in each and every one of them, Nikiforov is seen with a different man. The scenarios change from one ritzy restaurant to a private yacht to a penthouse-level swimming pool. Yuuri isn’t a hundred percent sure, but he’s starting to understand the gist of everything that’s happening. In a lot of them, Nikiforov and the man he happens to be with are in an intimate embrace, heads close together.

“He’s been known to take male escorts,” Sergei elaborates.

Yuuri’s eyebrows quirk upwards in realisation. Everything is crystal clear now. “ _Ah._ Why doesn’t he take lovers instead then?” 

Sergei snorts. “Really, you think I would know? He just doesn’t for some reason.”

The limousine finally rolls to a stop in front of Yuuri’s hotel. He turns to cast another quick glance at Sergei, who hands Yuuri a business card. He pockets it in his bag.

“Think about it and tell me later today,” Sergei says, “The Pakhan is an impatient man. I trust you won’t divulge any of what we’ve talked about if you know what’s good for you.”

Yuuri leans into the seat, mulling over it for a moment. If they really needed his skill set— one that they supposedly couldn’t find in anyone else?— then maybe they would give him a little bit more leeway with the payment he gets in return. Over these past few years, Yuuri had learnt to negotiate, pushing at the edges to test his boundaries but not so much that the opportunity would be lost.

The Pakhan of the Lyashev Bratva wants to hire him? Then he’ll have to afford Yuuri first. 

“Alright,” Yuuri hands him back the photos. “I’ll admit, this is a big job, and you and I both know it. Tell your Pakhan to make me an offer I can’t refuse. What I want isn’t just monetary, but I want something more than that. Something _priceless_.”

Sergei’s stare turns suspicious. “And that is?”

“I want protection. And the chance to start over again.”

 

* * *

 

**St. Petersburg  
****Present day**  

Ultimately, Yuuri had successfully negotiated a deal with one Dmitri Ulyanov, the Pakhan of none other than the Lyashev Bratva for the assassination of Viktor Nikiforov, Pakhan of the Feltsman Bratva. The terms agreed upon were as follows: $5 million wired to one of Yuuri’s offshore accounts, an array of ‘verified’ documents for a new identity, a residence in Switzerland, and ultimately, the protection of the Lyashev Bratva and its affiliates from anyone who may have the intention to put a hit on Yuuri.

This was how Yuuri found himself in Russia a scant three days later. He travelled to St. Petersburg with Sergei on one of their private-owned jet planes, landing in a secluded hangar, and after their flight, Yuuri was brought to one of the hotels owned by the Lyashev Bratva for the duration of his stay.

From the plans discussed beforehand, there was a mole working for the Lyashev in one of the escort services supposedly owned by the Feltsman Bratva. The plan itself was relatively simple: the escort booked to provide his services to Nikiforov at the end of the week would be replaced by Yuuri, under his persona as Eros. It was already Thursday, and Yuuri couldn’t help but feel anxious as they primped and preened him to the nines in preparation for tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

**An Interlude:**

There was a time when Dmitri Ulyanov and Yakov Feltsman were not only the best of friends, but sworn blood brothers. They had been friends throughout their youth, living a life of petty crime in order to find the means to survive. After a falling out over the woman who would become Yakov Feltman’s wife, Lilia Baranovskaya, they each rose up the ranks in two rival Bratva organisations, often clashing head-to-head in small turf wars that sparked all over St. Petersburg and Moscow.

These turf wars were all in search of more land, more power, more notoriety.

And when Yakov Feltsman had passed away a year prior, the Pakhan of the Lyashev Bratva found it fit to reclaim what he sees as rightfully _his_ , starting with taking Viktor Nikiforov out of the picture— _permanently_.

It was a bitter feud that had spanned decades, and even in Yakov’s death, Dmitri was still too bitter to let his former blood brother’s transgressions go.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri takes a deep breath, going over his appearance in the mirror one last time. He knew there was no need to fuss, especially when everything already looked perfect. His hair had been slicked back so there was nothing hiding his face, and his makeup had been done immaculately, pouted lips painted a glistening cherry red and his eyeshadow smoked out just the right amount to leave his gaze looking sultry.

He wore a tight black dress that complemented every effeminate curve of his body in all the right ways, and he knew the slit in front would shift whenever he crossed his legs, leaving Viktor with a tantalising reveal of skin; a glimpse of the garter clipped to his sheer black thigh highs. 

He arches his neck, collarbones exposed and free for Viktor to do with as he pleases, for as long as Yuuri will allow him.

Yuuri has done this hundreds, if not _thousands_ of times. Yet how is it that he can’t help but feel like something is going to go terribly amiss? Throughout his stay in Russia thus far, he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the hitmen hired to take Viktor out. How did Viktor know? How were they thwarted? Did Viktor find them? Did he put an end to their lives himself?

There’s no telling Yuuri isn’t about to walk into a trap. There’s no guarantee this night won’t end with his demise. But there was nothing telling Yuuri _otherwise_ either.

He takes a deep breath; strengthens his resolve the best he can. A deal is a deal. 

He exits the men’s comfort room and makes his way to the hotel bar, his stride easy and languid. And just like that, he’s put his mask back on. When Yuuri sees the back of Viktor’s head, silver hair gleaming under the soft glow of the warm lights, everything becomes all too real. 

He gently runs a hand along the line of Viktor’s broad shoulders before slinking into the barstool beside his, sending him a coquettish smile. His voice is low and soothing as he speaks. “Hello, Viktor.”

When Viktor turns to face him, the look of boredom on his face immediately turns heated. Yuuri can feel Viktor’s attraction to him like a live wire, blue eyes like glaciers drinking him in like the sweetest of wines. The man’s gaze slowly rakes over Yuuri’s face, down his bare neck and exposed collarbones, and to the rest of his body, all the way to the tips of his shiny black Louboutins.

Yuuri tilts his head to the side, expression coy. “Like what you see?” 

Viktor places a hand on top of Yuuri’s thigh and leans in, smirking at him. “Very much. What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks, thank you.”

Viktor motions for the bartender and orders them both of the same drink. Then he turns to Yuuri, thumb starting to rubbing circles in his skin. “You know, this is my first time having an English-speaking escort.” His expression turns appraising. “I have to say, I quite like it so far.” 

Yuuri feigns a smile, shifts closer so his body is facing Viktor’s. For some reason, Viktor can’t seem to stop staring at Yuuri’s lips. When Yuuri says nothing in response, he continues, “And you are..?” 

Yuuri uses Viktor’s gaze to his advantage, noticing the way he gulps when Yuuri rakes his top teeth over his plush bottom lip. “You can call me Eros.”

“Sexual love. Very fitting.” He isn’t sure if Viktor’s aware of it, but he’s already starting to lean in closer, encroaching on Yuuri’s space. His voice drops down to a purr. “I can’t wait to have you tonight then, Eros.” 

Yuuri swallows, a light red dusting his cheeks at the implication. When Viktor finally reaches up to cup Yuuri’s neck, Yuuri inhales sharply, trying not to flinch at the motion. The bartender brings their drinks and Yuuri nurses his alcohol slowly, while Viktor barely touches his at all, choosing to stare at Yuuri the entire time instead. It’s a bit… unsettling. Yuuri’s gotten more than his fair share of lewd stares, but that doesn’t mean he’s grown to enjoy it.

“You should try the vodka here if you have the time. It’s what we Russians are known for, after all, right? It’s very good.” Viktor says, running his hand up and down Yuuri’s shoulder. God, he’s handsy. Why is he so handsy? Yuuri actively has to force himself to focus, lest he accidentally swat Viktor’s hands away.

“I suppose I’ll have to take you up on that soon,” Yuuri lies through his teeth. Not now, not ever. Not that Viktor will ever know. 

When Yuuri finally finishes his drink, Viktor downs his in one go, getting up from the barstool and placing his hand on the small of Yuuri’s back. He gives Yuuri a charming smile. “Shall we?”

Yuuri nods, wrapping his hand around the crook of Viktor’s elbow. As they make their way to a black sedan in front of the hotel, Viktor makes sure to hold Yuuri close, their sides nearly pressed up against each other. The chauffeur holds the door open for them and Yuuri gets in first, Viktor following him soon after as they take their seats in the back.

The ride is quiet the whole time, the driver pointedly turning a blind eye as Viktor holds Yuuri close, an arm wrapped around his slim waist and nosing at the line of Yuuri’s jaw. When Viktor nips at the junction between Yuuri’s neck and his shoulder, his breath hitches in surprise, and Yuuri’s heart is starting to pound against his chest. Viktor mistakes it for a positive reaction, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he starts to press kisses into Yuuri’s bare skin, reaching for Yuuri’s hand with his own, fingers intertwined.

The gentleness, the sheer _intimacy_ of the gesture leaves Yuuri feeling ambivalent. He’s trying to get in that headspace again, trying to bury the feeling of anxiety threatening to bubble up in the pit of his stomach. He shoves any and all lingering thoughts to the back of his mind, wearing a heated look on his face he can’t quite feel, making to put all of his efforts into leaving Viktor yearning for more.

He reels Viktor in, just enough for Viktor to have a taste but never enough to every be truly satisfied. Yuuri doesn’t allow Viktor to kiss him in the car— “Not now,” he says, his tone light and joking, but his eyes betray him in which they regard Viktor with cautiousness— in promise for a night of passion, and all the kisses Viktor could ever want. To his surprise, Viktor doesn’t lash out when he’s refused what he wants. If anything, it seems to spur him on even further. 

(“Do you promise, Eros? Will you give me everything and anything I want?”)

(Yuuri places a hand on Viktor’s thigh, a mimicry of what Viktor had done earlier. His hand slides in, fingertips ghosting along Viktor’s inner thigh. He leans in, a small smile on his face as he whispers to him, “Anything, Viktor. Anything at all. I’m all yours.”)

 

* * *

 

The restaurant Viktor takes him to is located high up in a skyscraper, at the very top floor. Yuuri had heard about this restaurant before; he read online that the only way you could get in was by booking in advance, but with the type of power and influence Viktor had, Yuuri had no doubt the man encountered any problems with slipping his name up to the very top of the reservation list.

Their table was a bit more secluded, just out of earshot from the other tables surrounding him. It had the most perfect view of St. Petersburg’s skyline, and the view itself was so vivid, Yuuri felt as if he could slip through the windows and feel the wind pass through his splayed fingertips.

If Viktor treated his escorts with this much lavishness, what more would he treat a lover? Though deep inside, Yuuri knows how it goes. He himself is no stranger to such dinners, after all. It’s a status symbol, having a pretty, young dumb thing around your arm, the fine-dining. The whole shindig is nothing but a means to flaunt one’s wealth and power, and Viktor Nikiforov is the very _epitome_ of that.

“So, Eros,” Viktor starts, once he’s finished ordering for the both of them. The menu didn’t list the prices and it was in Russian, so it’s not like what Yuuri would’ve wanted mattered, anyway. “How long have you been in Russia?” 

“Not long, actually,” Yuuri says, glancing out of the window.

Viktor’s brows quirk up. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I… I travel a lot.” Yuuri turns to look at Viktor again, and it feels like the air had been punched clean out of his chest when he sees the look of poorly-contained lust in his eyes. Even though tonight will end on his terms, once he got a proper look at Viktor, he couldn’t deny the fact that the man was attractive, silver hair falling over one eye, his jawline defined and his baby blues absolutely _smouldering_. He wore his suit well, black on black accentuating the broad line of his shoulders, muscles just barely visible from within the confines of his clothing.

He’s a looker.

Yuuri almost shakes his head in disappointment. What a shame… Such a waste of a beautiful face. If Viktor did what he did, he would’ve been _lethal_.

“Tell me more,” Viktor says, leaning over the table with what seemed to be genuine curiosity in his eyes. Under different circumstances, Yuuri would have found it charming. Viktor lets out a petulant sigh, almost like a child. “I rarely get to leave Russia. Work usually keeps me here, though I still do get to fly out from time to time.”

Yuuri stills for a moment, quickly racking his mind for a good way to answer without raising suspicion or any more questions he could have trouble answering. He licks his lips, inwardly cursing Viktor’s unwavering attention. “I like to keep myself occupied. I _love_ going to new places, taking in the sights, meeting different people… How about you, Viktor? You should take the time to stop and smell the roses.”

Viktor reaches across the table and takes Yuuri’s hand into his, smiling sheepishly at him. “I would if I could, _kotyonok_. But right now, I just don’t have the time.”

Yuuri stares at their intertwined hands before looking back out of the window. “Maybe someday.”

“Someday,” Viktor assures him. 

They waste no time in eating once their food arrives. It’s a beautifully plated three-course meal, and all the aromas and tastes are different to Yuuri’s tongue. It doesn’t taste like anything else he’s eaten before, and when he expresses delight in a particular entrée, Viktor’s face lights up with happiness.

Yuuri almost fumbles over his cutlery, the very sight of it reminiscent of the picture Yuuri had seen almost a week ago in that dossier. For a moment, he thinks that the child he saw in that photo might still be in there. Inside him. He tastes something bitter in his mouth and it isn’t the food. No matter how he tries to wash it down with the light taste of champagne, it never truly goes away.

To Yuuri, remorse truly is the most bitter of fruit.

 

* * *

 

The moment the hotel’s express elevators close on them, Viktor wastes absolutely no time and practically pounces on him, pinning Yuuri against the mirrored wall, lips feverishly capturing his. Yuuri can feel the arousal buzzing in the atmosphere, thrumming through his veins, and through the rapid beating of Viktor’s heart.

He lets out a small noise and drapes his arms over Viktor’s shoulders, drawing him in even closer as he parted his lips, Viktor’s tongue darting into his mouth. Viktor lifts one of Yuuri’s legs up, and the slit along the side of the dress he’s wearing hikes up all the way to his waist, exposing bits of the black lace lingerie he chose for tonight.

Viktor pulls back, and when he sees it, he lets out a deep groan, pressing his body flush against Yuuri’s, one hand on the mirror for support.

“I’ve been waiting for this all night, _kotyonok_ ,” Viktor says, grinding up against him. Yuuri involuntarily bucks his hips to meet the thrust, and already, he can feel the outline of Viktor’s cock from within his black slacks.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Yuuri asks, cupping Viktor’s face. Viktor nods, breathless. “Fuck me, Viktor. I want you to fuck me like you mean it.” 

Viktor lets out a muffled curse before he captures Yuuri’s lips once more, chasing the taste of him on the tip of his tongue. They slowly rock against each other, arousal slowly building up as the elevators climbed to the penthouse suite of the hotel. Nothing but the best for Viktor Nikiforov. 

“Gorgeous,” Viktor mutters, leaving a trail of kisses along Yuuri’s exposed skin, sucking along his collarbones. “So fucking gorgeous.”

His hands are wandering, gripping Yuuri’s ass through his dress, and before Yuuri can even register it, Viktor lifts Yuuri’s other leg up and wraps both of Yuuri’s legs around his waist. Yuuri has no choice but to wrap his arms around Viktor’s neck for leverage, the circumference of his dress lifting all the way up to his hips. With his lace lingerie, Yuuri feels so _exposed_ , especially when Viktor is grinding up against him like this, right where the surveillance camera in the corner can see.

With an audible _Ding!_ , Viktor lifts Yuuri up like he weighs nothing at all and walks through those elevator doors, his lips still insistently chasing Yuuri’s. Just when Yuuri thinks Viktor is going to set him down so they can continue making out in the living room, Viktor passes right by it and makes a beeline for the master bedroom instead.

The realisation of what’s happening slowly starts to clear the arousal that’s been fogging up his head. Yuuri is here to kill Viktor Nikiforov, and that’s just what he’ll do. 

Viktor sets him down on the bed and climbs on top of him, kissing Yuuri once more. Yuuri spreads his legs, wrapping them around Viktor’s waist once more before he uses his strength to roll them over, so Yuuri is straddling Viktor this time. Yuuri sends him a coy smile, a finger pressed to Viktor’s kiss-swollen lips before pulling away and climbing off the bed.

Viktor sits up, visibly confused, and just as he’s about to open his mouth and say something, Yuuri saunters over to the centre of the room and slowly turns to face him. He runs his hands over the expanse of his chest, over his clothed nipples, and he drags his fingers up along the slit of his dress, up the exposed skin there. Viktor groans at the sight, palming his cock through the fabric of his pants.

Yuuri arches his neck, letting Viktor see the marks he’d left, before arching his back and reaching for the dress’ zipper behind him. He slowly drags it all the way down and he starts to pull the dress down, hips swaying as he tries to get the tight skimpy fabric over his thick ass and thighs. He turns to the side, just so Viktor can see Yuuri _tug_ at the fabric catching the tops of his ass with a bit more force.

He turns around completely, back facing Viktor with his legs spread apart as he pulls the dress all the way down, pulling at his ankles, bent over and showcasing his pert ass like nobody’s business. When he stands up, he sends Viktor a heated glance over his shoulder and gives one of his cheeks a hearty slap, the sound echoing throughout the room.

Yuuri makes his way over to Viktor, and the erection tenting in his pants is more prominent than ever. He sets one knee on the bed, running both of his hands up his legs. He knows he must look quite the sight right now, dressed in nothing but a tight corset, a black lacy garter set, sheer thigh highs, and his Louboutins. He keeps his heels on. He needs to.

Viktor visibly gulps and it fills Yuuri with a sense of pride that he could have this sort of effect on someone as powerful as Viktor. To see someone of his stature coming undone due to the carnal desires of man. 

Hubris.

Now it will be his downfall.

Yuuri gets on all fours, breath hot against Viktor’s clothed cock. He stares up at him for a moment, chocolate brown eyes absolutely _searing_ , and with the twist of a finger, the button of Viktor’s slacks are undone. He leans down and takes the zipper between his teeth, pulling it all the way down.

Viktor runs a hand through Yuuri’s hair, tugging just enough to be insistent, but not enough for it to hurt. _Get on with it_ , the action says. Yuuri smirks before leaning down and pressing his open mouth against Viktor’s clothed cock. Viktor bucks his hips up and Yuuri looks up at him once more, gaze chastising, before he leans back down and tongues at the length, making long strokes as Viktor gets harder and harder.

The purpose of this is to drive them to the point where they can’t notice anything else _but_ the pleasure. They become blind to everything else, only focussing on what _they_ need in that moment. What Yuuri, and _only_ Yuuri can give them in that moment.

When Yuuri finally, _finally_ pulls Viktor’s cock out of the confines of his underwear, Viktor lets out a hiss at the friction, undulating his hips once more when Yuuri finally takes the tip of his leaking cockhead in. Viktor is big, but Yuuri will manage.

The pre-come tastes salty on Yuuri’s tongue, and when he licks up the length of Viktor’s dick, Viktor tugs at his hair once more. Yuuri glances up at him, half of Viktor’s cock in his mouth and Viktor moans at the sight.

“Come here, _kotyonok_ ,” he slurs, voice thick with want and desire, “Let me kiss you.”

Yuuri acquiesces, the dick sliding out of his mouth with a wet _pop_. He climbs up Viktor’s body, kissing him again as he starts to undo the first few buttons of Viktor’s button-down, hands sliding down his sleeves in order to divest him of his blazer.  

“Where’s the lube?” Yuuri whispers against his lips, giving another quick kiss.

Viktor smiles at him before reaching for the tube of lubricant in the bedside drawer, handing it over to Yuuri. “Do I..?” He asks, and Yuuri understands, shaking his head.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll do it. It’ll be quicker this way.”

Viktor bites his bottom lip as he nods, practically devouring Yuuri with his gaze.

Yuuri leans on his knees and rests on his heels, snapping the bottle of lube open and squeezing a small amount out. His heart is rapidly beating against his chest as he reaches behind him with both his hands, as if to tug the back of his underwear down and prepare himself. From this angle, the last thing Viktor would notice would be Yuuri reaching for the small dagger cleverly hidden within the heel of his Louboutins. He inches down with practised care, and just when the dagger is within hand’s reach, Viktor grabs Yuuri’s hipbone _tight_ , the corset having ridden up while he was reaching for the blade.

Yuuri jolts in surprise, heart rapidly beating against his chest, and he’s _sure_ he’s been caught. But how did he find out? Did he know all along?

Instead, Viktor’s grip on Yuuri loosens, and he runs his thumb over where Yuuri _knows_ his soulmark is in an almost _reverent_ manner. Yuuri quickly glances at him, and Viktor’s icy blue eyes are wide with wonder. He lifts his own dress shirt up, revealing a soulmark on his hipbone that mirrors Yuuri’s— one that undoubtedly matches his own.

Everything is happening so fast.

Viktor is his soulmate. 

Yuuri doesn’t miss how Viktor’s voice wavers with a swell of emotion.

_“You’re mine.”_


	5. some die looking for a hand to hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember when he treated you like a drug he was only brave enough to take in small doses?
> 
> you deserve someone who wants to die.

_“You’re mine.”_

 

Before Yuuri can even think of anything else, Viktor tugs him back down on top of him, fervently reinitiating their kiss as he starts to undo the clasps on Yuuri’s corset one by one. Yuuri’s eyes are wide open the entire time, still in shock from the revelation. He pays Viktor’s hands no heed when they slowly start to remove his lingerie piece by piece, Viktor whispering his name— _Eros, Eros_ — against his heated skin like a prayer.

 

Yuuri finds himself at a loss for words and a flurry of thoughts are running through his head a mile a minute, overlapping; insensible; incoherent. He doesn’t know what to make of— of _all_ of this. He doesn’t know what to _think_.

 

Viktor is his soulmate.

 

Viktor is his soulmate.

 

Viktor is his soulmate.

 

_Viktor is his soulmate._

 

The more he repeats it in his head, the more and more it seems to make no sense. This is the man he’s supposed to _kill_. The man he was about to kill, with a dagger and a quick slit of the throat. How the hell did this happen?

 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you,” Viktor says, voice choked with emotion, and there are happy tears brimming in the corners of his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you all my life, and now—” with one quick motion, he flips them over, reverently running his hands up and down Yuuri’s body, looking like he couldn’t believe his luck, “—I’ve finally found you.”

 

And when Viktor leans down to kiss him, Yuuri lets him, losing himself to the motions that were otherwise automatic to him. Viktor licks into Yuuri’s mouth, tongues brushing against each other, and he slides his hand in between Yuuri’s thighs, gently parting his legs open. Yuuri feels exposed to him in more ways than one, as though his soul had been bared without him realising it.

 

Viktor settles in between Yuuri’s spread legs and props his hips up with a pillow for extra leverage. He reaches for the forgotten bottle of lube and squeezes a generous amount onto his palm, warming them up between his fingers.

 

Yuuri couldn’t take his eyes off of Viktor’s soulmark, how every line, every ridge matched his perfectly.

 

It’s captivating. It’s absolutely devastating.

 

The tip of Viktor’s finger brushes against his hole, circling the puckered entrance before slowly sinking in, experimental. Without needing to be prompted, he adds another finger, making scissoring motions as he stretches Yuuri out. As Viktor goes about preparing him, every single touch is so gentle, so cautious, it sends Yuuri’s mind reeling. He isn’t used to it being like this. He wants to cry.

 

When Viktor’s fingers brush against Yuuri’s prostate, he lets out a surprised keen, bucking his hips up to meet the curl of Viktor’s fingers, his hole practically quivering around them in response. Viktor lets out a loud groan, insistently stimulating Yuuri’s prostate to draw more of those sounds out of him.

 

Eventually he draws his fingers out, and Yuuri hisses low at the sudden loss. Viktor reaches for the lube again and pours it straight onto his cock, fully erect and the head flushed a deep shade of red, stroking it as he does so. He teases at Yuuri’s entrance with the tip of his cock.

 

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks him one last time, hair dishevelled and his cheeks a ruddy pink.

 

Yuuri stares at him for a moment, silent, before nodding his assent, hoping to find comfort in the familiarity of doing what he does best. With a groan, Viktor pushes in, the cockhead slipping through the tight ring of muscle with relative ease. He pauses and brushes his hand against Yuuri’s soulmark again before sliding in even further, feeding Yuuri’s hole inch by inch until he bottoms out inside of him.

 

They stay like that for a prolonged moment, trying to catch their breath as Yuuri grips Viktor’s shoulders in effort to somehow ground himself and try to relax and accommodate the stretch. Viktor leans forward and presses his face into Yuuri’s chest, his own eyes squeezing shut. Yuuri didn’t know how to explain it, but it was like he felt this— this rush of _emotion_ , one so strong that it brought tears to his eyes just trying to fathom it. Why was it like this? He had never acted like this with anyone else. It didn’t feel this way with anyone else, not even with Jianyu.

 

Was it because Viktor was his soulmate? That couldn’t be the _only_ reason, right?

 

There were so many things about this he didn’t understand.

 

He bites his bottom lip, trying to dispel the thoughts. When Viktor looks at him, he sees the same tears in his eyes. Yuuri cups Viktor’s cheek and wriggles his hips slightly. “Y-You can move now.”

 

Viktor smiles, quickly kissing Yuuri’s lips before pulling out and thrusting back in. Yuuri lets out a low whimper, grip on Viktor’s shoulders tightening. Viktor starts off slow, trying to savour the moment, and he leans back so he can watch where they’re connected with wide blue eyes, thumb still lovingly brushing against Yuuri’s soulmark as he rocks into him.

 

Yuuri loses himself in it easily, bucking his hips to meet every thrust. Not long after, Viktor picks up into a pace that’s downright _relentless_ , every drag of his cock leaving Yuuri gasping, moaning for more and more of _that_ , fuck yes, _just like that_.

 

He claws his fingers down Viktor’s back, the room filled with the sounds of their pleasure and wet skin slapping against skin. He’s close— so close, he can feel it coiling in the pit of his stomach, ready to spring at any second.

 

“Viktor—” Yuuri gasps out, “Viktor, _please_.”

 

Viktor nods in understanding and buries his face in the crook of Yuuri’s neck as he reaches for Yuuri’s long-neglected cock, jerking him off in time to their thrusts. He speeds up the last few thrusts, his own movements jerky and inconsistent, and it pushes the both of them over the edge of bliss, Yuuri’s release covering both their stomachs in come, his hole clenching down on Viktor’s length. Viktor groans his name out before Yuuri can feel the pulsing of a wet sticky heat deep inside of him.

 

They stay like that for a while, too tired to move. Viktor takes a second to collect himself before pulling out, a mixture of come and lube seeping out of Yuuri’s hole, puffy and red after their tryst. He collapses beside Yuuri, wiping both of their stomachs off with the corner of the duvet before tossing it aside. They’re both out of breath and Yuuri can honestly say he’s never felt so _exhausted_ after sex before.

 

The both of them fall fast asleep.

* * *

 

When Yuuri wakes the morning after, he finds himself in a room unfamiliar to him. He ignores it at first, the notion itself not at all uncommon for him. He settles back into the covers, and someone shifts beside him, draping their arm over Yuuri’s waist.

 

Every bone in Yuuri’s body grows frigid in realisation. He feels like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head and already his mind is starting to buzz. He can feel a migraine coming on.

 

_Shit_.

 

Yuuri slept with him. He slept with Viktor. Fucked him instead of doing what he was _supposed_ to, instead of what he was _hired_ to do.

 

Were they— Were they even really soulmates?

 

It takes him a concerted effort to sit up, his lower back aching in protest. He can feel remnants of Viktor’s come inside of him, still making a mess between his legs. He turns to look at Viktor who is still asleep, long pale lashes brushing against the tops of his freckled cheeks. He looks serene, like some sort of fallen angel. His soulmark is partially hidden by the sheets, so Yuuri glances at his own mark instead. He’s looked at it often enough to know what it looks like without actually looking at it, but _now_ , it feels like he’s only starting to see it for the first time.

 

All his life, it had just been a mark like any other— but _this_ happened, and gave meaning to something he never thought he’d find. He can feel his heartbeat picking up, matching the anxiousness he was feeling. What happens now? If Viktor hadn’t turned out to be his soulmate, Yuuri knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d have killed him last night.

 

Could he..?

 

Should he?

 

This is the man who’s destined to be his other half. Was life really that cruel to him that he’d not only taken his past lover’s life, but that of his soulmate’s too?

 

Where did the cycle end?

 

It seems like his life is just one loss after another, breaking him down until there’s nothing of him left. Yuuri lets out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needs a shower, or at least the chance to go somewhere to try and clear his head. He throws his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the pain, and his heart skips a beat when Viktor suddenly latches onto his wrist, his grip tight and bordering on _painful_. Yuuri’s eyes widen in horror.

 

Viktor looks at through eyes half-mast, brows furrowed together. “Where are you going, _kotyonok_?”

 

Yuuri opens and closes his mouth several times, at a loss for something to say. Wasn’t he asleep? He grabbed onto Yuuri’s wrist with such accuracy, Yuuri was starting to have a niggle of doubt as to whether or not he could have killed Viktor with ease last night.

 

Viktor frowns when Yuuri doesn’t say anything, easing his grip on Yuuri’s wrist, and instead rubs small circles onto his pulse point as if trying to calm him. “Please don’t go.”

 

“I won’t,” Yuuri blurts out, “I— I wasn’t. I was going to take a shower.”

 

“ _Oh._ ” Viktor’s body relaxes upon hearing this, and Yuuri only realises then that Viktor had been on edge when he’d asked Yuuri to stay. Instead, he gives Yuuri a sleepy smile rather unbecoming of a Pakhan and stretches his arms out. Yuuri crawls into them, trying to find some sort of comfort in the warm embrace. Viktor kisses his temple.

 

“I never thought I’d meet my soulmate,” Viktor says, his voice laced with sleep, accent thick. Yuuri nods, waiting for him to continue. “And now you’re finally here. Wow.”

 

Viktor starts to rub soothing circles onto Yuuri’s back and his eyes flutter shut. “Stay with me. In Russia. Please?”

 

Yuuri stills.

 

“I know how we met wasn’t in the most conventional of ways,” Viktor babbles, almost a childish quality to it. “But I hope we can get to know each other better. You _are_ my other half, after all. You’re my equal, and I’d give the world to you on a silver platter because you deserve nothing but the best. My _soulmate_ deserves nothing but the best, and only _I_ am capable of giving that to you.”

 

Yuuri tries to take it all in, but it’s still too much. It’s overwhelming him.

 

“Anything I want?” His voice is small, quiet. Gently testing the boundaries that lay before him as an idea starts to form itself inside of his head.

 

Viktor smiles at him, reassuring. “Anything at all, _kotyonok_.”

 

It’s almost an echo of their conversation last night in the car. In Viktor’s infatuation, Yuuri _thinks_ he’s managed to find a solution to all of this.

 

For Yuuri, Viktor will bend and break.

* * *

 

(They spend the rest of the morning tangled up in the sheets, Viktor damn well intent on acquainting himself with every inch of Yuuri’s body, and in the morning light that streams in through the windows, they gleam with the slick sheen of sweat and come.)

 

(“To make up for lost time,” Viktor reasons.)

 

* * *

Yuuri absentmindedly stares at his feet as he stands under the steady downpour of water in the shower. In his periphery, water _drip_ , _drip_ , _drips_ down the ends of his hair, the shower foam being rinsed off his body slowly swirling down the drain. He runs his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath. He needs to think. Think of his next steps; of what he is going to do next. He _needs_ to have a plan. He can’t _not_ have a plan.

 

How the hell is he going to deal with the Lyashev Bratva? Two million had already been wired to his account, and it was agreed upon that he’d get the rest if— and _only_ if— he succeeded in assassinating Viktor Nikiforov.

 

That isn’t going to pan out, obviously.

 

If Yuuri tells them he failed, then it was only a matter of time before they found someone else to try and get the job done. And even though Yuuri was fully capable of going about it himself, he finds himself gradually warming up to the idea of _not_ killing his own soulmate— especially when Yuuri’s just found him, after all these years.

 

Should he reach out to them at all? Or should he go into hiding... lay low for a while until everything blows over?

 

But if there’s anything he’s learnt from the few minutes he spent talking to Dmitri Ulyanov, it’s that the man is absolutely _ruthless_ and _relentless_ and he’s willing to do anything to get what he wants. And what he wants is Viktor dead.

 

It seems like they’re going to have a bit of a problem then, because for the first time in Yuuri’s life, this is the _one thing_ he refuses to give up.

 

Is it too sudden? Too soon? Maybe. Probably. But for fuck’s sake, he’s already lost _so much_. He’s already given up so much just to feel a shred of sanity, like there was still some sort of humanity left in him. Let him have this. Just _let him have this_. And if things don’t work out, then that’s fine. Because push comes to shove, Yuuri is capable of taking care of it himself.

 

He wants to do something reckless. Something for _himself_. He’s sick and tired of constantly glancing behind his back, hesitating before he turns every corner. He’s tired of living in fear. He may have brought this all onto himself, but that doesn’t mean he constantly has to be resigned to it.

 

He may be bound to this life, but like _hell_ he won’t try and tip the scales in his favour.

 

Dmitri Ulyanov may be ruthless and relentless, yes, but Yuuri Katsuki has fought his entire _life_. He’s fought to _thrive_ , and though he doesn’t have the same experiences Ulyanov or Viktor may have, he’s tougher than he looks. He’s learnt to survive even when he was pushed to the ground, slave to circumstance.

 

But now that Yuuri thinks about it, in a way, everything about this was just so _fucked up_. Every little thing he had ever done has slowly culminated over the years and led up to this point. If he never did what he did all those years ago, starting from that fated night in the nightclub, then Yuuri would’ve gone his whole life without meeting his soulmate anyway.

 

Did it mean that he was supposed to stray the path all along? Was this really the life he was supposed to live? Or if he remained a law-abiding citizen, if he said _no_ to Helena that night, then would there have been a point in his life where he would have met Viktor anyway?

 

Just trying to fathom it makes his head and heart ache. It had always stung, thinking about the past. It’s why Yuuri had always tried his best not to dwell on it.

 

But this is _now_. This could be his _future_.

 

It was part of the reason why he wanted a chance to start over again in the first place. A blank slate. All his life, it was something he knew he could never afford, having only very few friends in high places. Of course, there’s no erasing the things he’s done. They will remain with him for the rest of his life— but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t try and bury the past.

 

Remembering what had happened earlier, he studied the fading red marks on his wrist. What made Viktor Nikiforov so untouchable? Why was it that the Lyashev Bratva could have him under surveillance, but when it came to actually getting rid of him, that was where they had always failed? If Viktor knew, then why didn’t he try and get rid of Ulyanov then?

 

What went wrong with all of those attempts? Or, rather, what had Viktor done _right_? Yuuri needed to know.

 

The deal with the Lyashev Bratva might have been a stepping stone, but what he has right now, this _potential_ he has with Viktor as his soulmate, could very well be a foundation.

 

* * *

When Yuuri exits the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, he sees Viktor sitting on the bed, busy typing on his phone. Viktor glances up at him, a warm and genuine smile on his face. “You sure took your time.”

 

Yuuri smiles back, albeit a bit sheepishly. He rubs a smaller towel through his hair and he doesn’t miss the way Viktor’s eyes follow the droplets of water sluicing down his chest. “Sorry, I tend to lose track of time.”

 

“Uhuh,” Viktor says, distracted. He stretches his hand out and Yuuri takes it, letting Viktor pull him closer until he’s right in front of him. “Look at my beautiful soulmate. My other half.”

 

As if realising something, his eyes widen a fraction, and he glances up at Yuuri. “Ah! What would you like for breakfast, _kotyonok_? Or is it brunch? I can order in if you’d like.”

 

The ease, the domesticity of it all leaves Yuuri feeling like he’d stepped into another plane of existence. He’s unused to it and it probably shows in the awkwardness of his movements. His smile falters slightly. “I-I’m okay with anything, really. But Viktor… You _do_ know we’ll have to talk about this, right? About what happens next?”

 

Viktor nods in understanding, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Yuuri’s hand. “I know. I don’t expect you to drop everything for me—” a pause and Viktor adds as an afterthought, whispered more to himself than anything, “—as much as I want you to.”

 

Viktor insists Yuuri wear one of his clean white shirts and a pair of boxer shorts before he orders them breakfast, his voice much lower and hushed when it came to speaking in his native language. When he’s done, he plants a kiss on Yuuri’s cheek before leaving for the shower.

 

The moment the bathroom door closes behind him, Yuuri immediately makes a beeline for his Louboutins, picking them up from where they were strewn all over the floor and inspecting them carefully. Sure enough, the dagger he’d smuggled in was still hidden inside one of the heels, a dirty little secret privy to no one else but him. He lets out a sigh of relief and quickly sets the heels aside, putting them where no one could possibly trip over them.

 

Now he just needs to figure out what to do next. Viktor had only booked his services until noon so it was inevitable the Lyashev would eventually come and check on him, if not at this hotel then the room he was staying at... Yuuri inhales sharply in realisation.

 

He doesn’t have that much time left, so he’ll need to come up with a backup plan and _fast_. His belongings were still in the other hotel, for fuck’s sake. Even though everything he owned was expendable, he felt uncomfortable and vulnerable not having his handgun with him now he knew that going back was no longer a viable option. Save for his Louboutins, he’s completely on his own. Despite the fact he knew how to handle a dagger or a knife for self-defence, there was only so much he could do to protect himself without a gun.

 

It hurts to even _walk_ , so being unable to pace the room leaves him increasingly anxious and on edge, with no choice but to stay in bed and wait for Viktor to finish his shower. A few moments later, he hears the elevator come all the way up to the penthouse suite. It must be the food Viktor ordered. On a whim he decides to get up from bed, and he grits his teeth as he limps over to the door and opens it a fraction. A room attendant wheels in a cart with all sorts of foods. Beside her is one of Viktor’s bodyguards, visibly armed. Yuuri’s blood runs cold when the man catches his gaze, expression steely. Yuuri stills and quickly averts his eyes. The room attendant and body guard reenter the elevator, its metal doors closing behind them, and just like that, he and Viktor are alone again.

 

Just like that, he and Viktor are alone again.

 

Yuuri wonders how many bodyguards Viktor has stationed here. He’s a man of importance after all; it’d be no wonder if this hotel was heavily guarded.

 

He feels trapped. In a way, he was. He didn't have anywhere else to go. He wasn't _sure_ if he even had contacts that happened to be here. His connections were never stationary; they were constantly on the move, going from one place to the next. Just like him.

 

For a moment, he eyes the telephone on the bedside table.

 

Just as quickly, he turns away, shaking the thought out of his head. It’s too risky. He’d have to go through the phone operator just to call out, and there’s a likelihood whatever number he called could be tracked.

 

_Trapped_.

 

Viktor exits the en suite with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Yuuri quickly whirls around to face him, heart rapidly beating against his chest, faux naïf. Viktor sends him a charming smile, padding over to the walk-in wardrobe. With his back turned to him, it’s when Yuuri finally takes notice of all the red scratches down Viktor’s back, many of them having drawn blood.

 

He did _that_.

 

Yuuri forces himself to look away, quietly excusing himself as he makes his way to the living room. He barely spares the cart a glance before he carefully sits down on the couch, wincing as a twinge of pain makes itself known beneath the small of his back. Fuck, he feels so _sore_.

 

Several minutes later, Viktor emerges from the bedroom, fully dressed in a t-shirt and track pants. He pauses midstep when he sees the cart in the middle of the room, surprise on his face. “Oh. The food is here. That was fast.”

 

He places his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders from behind him and plants a gentle kiss to his temple. “Let’s have breakfast now, _kotyonok_.”

 

“Okay,” Yuuri says, taking a deep breath. Viktor’s eyes follow him as he moves to sit at the dining table, gaze shifting from concern to self-satisfaction.

 

Yuuri doesn’t say anything more as Viktor begins to move the dishes from the cart to the dining table. When he’s done, he sits opposite Yuuri and looks at him expectantly. He gestures to the food, quirking an eyebrow up at him. “Well?”

 

Yuuri slowly turns to look at the food. It’s an intercontinental breakfast, but with everything that’s been going on, the last thing he wants to do is eat. Upon a lack of response, Viktor lets out a sigh and reaches for an empty plate, placing it in front of Yuuri before he starts piling food on top of it. “You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It’s good for you.”

 

“Um,” Yuuri gulps, poking idly at a slice of ham with a fork. “Right.”

 

Viktor reaches for a piece of toast and starts slathering it with jam. “You know, I had a friend once. From America.”

 

“‘Once’?” Yuuri echoes, and he resists the urge to clap a hand over his mouth. “What happened?”

 

“Business went sour,” Viktor dismisses, waving his butter knife about. “Things didn’t work out. Anyways, he was an American. I don’t know too many Americans, and I don’t meet them unless it’s for work, but I was younger then. He taught me a game— several, actually. But this one, I think, will be fun for the both of us.”

 

Yuuri does not know what to make of that. A ‘game’? What kind of ‘ _game_ ’? A part of him didn’t want to know the specifics, but he knew it was inevitable anyway. Viktor reaches for a glass of orange juice and sets it down by Yuuri’s untouched plate.

 

“Twenty questions,” Viktor says. “We take turns asking each other a question until we both reach twenty questions. We can get to know each other better. Doesn’t that sound great?”

 

Yuuri nods, a weak smile on his face. He can't believe someone had actually taught the future Pakhan of the Feltsman Bratva how to play twenty questions, but he shrugs it off and eats a bit of ham and poached egg just to show Viktor he’s eating. Viktor smiles back, reaching over the table to take Yuuri’s other hand into his own. “I’ll start then. What’s your favourite colour?”

 

Yuuri lets out a breathless laugh, in utter disbelief. He can’t believe it. Are they really going to do this? Are they really doing this? “It’s blue. Dark blue.”

 

Viktor hums in thought. “Now you ask _me_ a question.”

 

Yuuri runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the shower earlier. He sighs, glancing at a far corner in the room. “Um. Favourite animal?”

 

“Poodles,” Viktor says, impassioned, not even missing a beat. Yuuri’s eyebrows shoot up at the response, and it’s such a weirdly specific answer, he doesn’t really know how to reply. For a moment, he thinks of his toy poodle Vicchan, which he’d had as a child in another life, and he feels a flutter of nostalgia and hurt beneath his ribcage. “Next question. Your name isn’t really Eros, is it?”

 

Yuuri turns back to his plate, poking at his food once more. His heart is starting to rattle against his chest. “You sure didn’t waste any time.” He pauses for a moment before shaking his head. “No, it’s not.”

 

“Then what’s your real name?”

 

“You can’t ask two questions in a row. That’s not how it works.”

 

Viktor lets out a sigh, pouting at him like a child. “Alright, alright. Ask me another question then, quick!”

 

“Why do you want to know my real name?”

 

He looks at Yuuri like he’s sprouted three heads. It can’t possibly be any weirder than what’s going on now. He’s playing twenty questions with the Pakhan of the Feltsman Bratva, the person he was hired to _kill_ , who just so happens to be his soulmate apparently. At this point, suddenly sprouting three heads would’ve been a welcome distraction.

 

“Well, why wouldn’t I?” Viktor starts, “You’re my soulmate.”

 

“That can’t be the _only_ reason,” Yuuri interjects, and Viktor shakes his head.

 

“It isn’t, really. But it _is_ the main reason. Honestly, I find you to be very interesting, so even if we didn’t turn out to be soulmates, I would have wanted to get to know you better anyway. At least, to an extent. I…” Viktor drifts off, turning away from Yuuri, _finally_.

 

Finally, a bit of reprieve, because Yuuri can barely think when Viktor pins him down with his icy gaze like that. It’s like he sees _through_ him, which makes him more paranoid than ever. He’s honestly afraid Viktor will see right through his charade.

 

“I’ve never been with anyone before romantically,” he continues, “I’ve… had escorts, yes, but never lovers. Thinking about it now, I guess it sounds a little hypocritical, but I’ve always been a bit of a romantic, waiting for my soulmate. As I grew older, I started to think that, maybe, I’d never meet my soulmate, but I was so used to having escorts, I decided to stick to routine anyway.”

 

Yuuri stares down at their intertwined fingers, hoping Viktor won’t notice the rabbiting of his pulse. He does not speak.

 

Viktor’s face scrunches up in worry. “Look— and it’s important you have to know this, so I hope you’ll hear me out. When I saw you for the first time last night, I felt— I felt something _electric_ between us. Like we had this instant connection. I was _so_ , so attracted to you, ah, Eros, and I definitely still am.”

 

_‘What you saw wasn’t real,’_ Yuuri almost wants to scream, _‘What you saw was nothing but a façade.’_

 

“And when I saw that we were soulmates, in that moment I realised it was a connection of hearts all along. Isn’t it beautiful? Of all the people in the world, of all the people we could have been with, the universe took one look at us and decided we’d be _perfect_ for each other. Even after all these years, fate worked to bring us together.”

 

Viktor brings Yuuri’s hand up to his lips and kisses it, his icy gaze piercing, never leaving Yuuri’s. “I never knew you were such a romantic,” Yuuri says, but it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from him. It sounds distant; far away. Like an echo.

 

Viktor winks at him, coquettish. “Guess I might surprise you in the future then.” He moves Yuuri’s hand up, palm facing upwards, and Viktor’s eyes flutter shut as he presses his lips against Yuuri’s pulsepoint in an open-mouthed kiss. “So beautiful, so perfect. If we weren’t soulmates, maybe you could have been the one person I would’ve wanted to stay anyway.”

 

_And you would’ve been dead,_ Yuuri thinks.

 

Not that Viktor will ever know. It’s just another secret Yuuri will take with him to the grave.

 

Viktor seems to take notice when Yuuri doesn’t immediately say something in reply. He turns to look at him again, expression riddled with worry. “You don’t talk much, do you? Are you usually like this or is it only in the mornings?”

 

“Neither. You ask a lot of questions.”

 

Viktor smiles a bit wryly at that, almost looking offended. “And you still haven’t told me your name.”

 

It’s then when Yuuri realises how Viktor could’ve interpreted everything in an entirely different way. As far as Viktor knows— that is, as far as Viktor will _ever_ know— Yuuri is nothing but an escort. A random pretty face hired for an easy, albeit expensive lay. Viktor wouldn’t second-guess who Yuuri is because Yuuri hasn’t given him a reason to. And if Yuuri wants to get out of this alive, he’ll have to keep the façade up. Viktor had probably come up with his own assumptions, anyway. Yuuri was nothing but an escort who happened to share his soulmark.

 

Yuuri could already see how the saviour complex would kick in. Viktor, the rich and enigmatic Pakhan, saving Yuuri from a lifetime of nights spent in strange places, with even stranger faces. God, it’s so fucking _cliché_. It makes Yuuri feel sick to his stomach just thinking about it. He doesn’t feel like eating anymore. And he _knows_ he’ll have to tell Viktor his real name at some point. If not, then Viktor will finally, _finally_ have a reason to doubt him. He _has_ to tell Viktor now.

 

“My name?” Yuuri echoes, glancing up at Viktor. Viktor looks back at him, expression hopeful. “My real name is Yuuri.”


End file.
